


A Cool Glass of Eliminate

by wordybirdy



Series: From Trifle to Infinity [9]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:33:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the process of elimination.<br/>Of a person, a time or place.<br/>Sometimes, it's the impossible memory that haunts, without our giving it consent.<br/>Put them, put it, to rest, so whatever remains – however improbable – must be the absolute truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brilliantine

The summer of 1889 was of the kind that melts the tarmacadam; that can render a fellow speechless, panting mute from its intensity. House windows thrown wide open, and with shirt-sleeves rolled as high as one might dare (buttons a bother), when one was private and away from public glare. But outside upon the street, of course, we men were trussed by decency in waistcoats, ties and jackets, our hats clamped damply to our perspiring heads.

One Tuesday morning at ten o'clock precisely, Holmes and I were sat side by side in revolving chairs at Smith & Curtin, the gentleman's barber shop on Lincoln Street. With white sheets wrapped around us to suffocate us even further, it was to some relief, still, as the snips of hair were shaken to the tile in triumphant coda.

“My goodness,” I said, “that feels so much better already.” I beamed up at Curtin, my man with the scissors. “So what news are you able to share with us, Mr. Curtin? Has your wife managed to find any relief from her symptoms of palsy?”

“Oh, yes, she is much better, Doctor, yes, thank you, after the course of treatment you recommended. We really cannot thank you enough. Elizabeth said to me – and yes, she truly did – _'That Dr. Watson, he is such a lovely man!'_. And I said to my wife, well, I said to her: _'Yes, I quite agree with you, my dear, he really is!'”_

I heard my friend yawn loudly, and rather pointedly, from his barber's chair beside me. I might have turned my head to frown if Mr. Curtin, at that precise moment in heat-slowed time, had not been attending to the hair above the arc of my right ear. I directed the frown instead to the mirror, where – naturally – it did not cast upon the irritant. For Holmes's eyes were closed, his attention span elsewhere; thin fingers tapping the chair arm in recollection, I had no doubt, of the concert at St. James's we had attended the night before.

Ten minutes later, and we were back out into the roil and brushing hair from our shirt collars.

“That feels so much better,” I said.

“Yes,” replied Holmes. “I believe you did say.” He wrinkled his nose in displeasure. “This brilliantine smells of _flowers_.”

He took me by the arm, and together we strolled the London streets as two old friends might do, who have no special place to be, nor any hurry to arrive there.

“Mr. Smith cut your hair extremely well on this occasion,” I told him quietly. “You look very handsome from it.”

Holmes bristled.

“And when do I _not_ look– oh, just be quiet...”

(For I was now chuckling aloud at his petulant spat.)

“My ears itch,” he added then, still of the inclination to be wearisome.

“Someone must be talking about you,” I said. “I can only imagine their invective.”

That made him smile, a little. A corner of his lip quirked up, at any rate. He squeezed my arm.

The spring and early summer had proven fruitful for us both. The Spanish Embassy had seen Holmes engaged upon a confidential case, that held him occupied and absent for far longer than I might perhaps have wished. But his triumph in the affair had sealed his reputation far and wide, and only served to bolster his good spirits. For my own part, I had begun to take on some police surgeon work at Scotland Yard, and which found me in the evidence box of the courts on odd occasions. Such ventures never interfered with my participating in my friend's own work – and I was very glad of this, for I should have never heard the last of it if they had.

This fortnight past had been a tranquil one, however, with little of calling for the either of us. With this great heatwave, I may dare claim that to be a good thing.

Upon our arrival home, we were immediately struck by the oppressive air. One might have fried a perfect egg upon any of the surfaces. Holmes marched to the windows, which had been pulled and locked during our absence.

“ _Who_ closed the windows?” he demanded. “John, it is a _furnace_ in here now.” 

He pulled up all the sashes, fanning madly at his face with the morning's Times.

I removed my jacket and rolled my shirt-sleeves to the elbow. I sat at the breakfast table and reached to snatch the flapping newspaper in mid-wave. The front page was almost comical. _“HEATWAVE!”_ , it proclaimed, proudly, in its first column. I began to read through the short article. The word reappeared a further dozen times.

Holmes was charging for the door, meanwhile. I looked up, alarmed.

“Where are you doing? Don't make a fuss. Billy saw that we were out and he did not think--”

“I am not going to make a fuss,” said he. “I am going to wash my hair. My ears still itch and I smell of flowers.”

He disappeared from view. After a moment, I heard sounds of splashing water from the bathroom. I took the opportunity to pad down to Mrs. Hudson to request a pot of tea. It arrived with us and was brewing when my friend at last emerged, his face yet pinker than before. En route he had shucked his garments to his trousers and his undervest. He patted his damp hair, smoothing it down, a sheen of black.

“Tea,” I said, pointing.

He smiled.

“Thank you, John. You always know exactly what I need.”

“You look delectable,” I told him. 

“Well, I feel anything but,” said he, with the teapot in mid-air and pouring a cupful. “I pray to heaven we don't have a client while I'm in this state.”

I watched him as he sipped daintily at his tea. His hair, cut quite shorter, was drying already. A small, errant lock curled down on his forehead.

“The late morning mail,” said Holmes. “Where is it?”

“On the sideboard,” I replied. “And there is not so much of it. Two letters and an invoice, as best I can tell.”

My friend wrinkled his nose at the latter. His eyes strayed to the sideboard, all the same. For a letter might bring casework, a random intrigue or some small interest.

“John--” he began.

“I shall bring them across to you,” I said, and I did so.

“Hum,” said Sherlock Holmes. “The top letter is postmarked from Surrey. A gentleman's handwriting.”

He set it aside, and slit open the second with the blade of his pocket-knife. Scanning the contents, he let out a low chuckle.

“Three lines from Langdale Pike,” he said. He raised his eyebrows across the table. “In _green ink_ , John.”

“Green ink!”

“Yes. Hmm hmm. Well, well.”

“What does the man have to say, then?”

“Nothing of import,” said my friend.

He slid the letter back into its envelope, stuffing it into his left trouser pocket.

The invoice was from Newton's, the furniture repair shop nearest to Baker Street. The owner was something of a charlatan, responsible for causing our occasional cabinet a fraction more turmoil than had been dealt it in the first place. Holmes passed a thoughtful moment casting complaint in _sotto voce_ , before crumpling the sheet into a ball and overarming it away.

“You are not going to pay?” I asked him, amused.

It seemed that we spent many of our mornings in just this fashion, and the taller the mail pile then the richer the game. Holmes's moods would fluctuate from one missive to the next, and his reactions unpredictable. I thought perhaps it might be wise to retrieve the Newton invoice. Mahogany and hinges, and all of those things that must do good the damage, may well be expensive, but I had scant desire for my own face or for that of my friend's to land into sharp contact with Newton's right-hook.

“Newton was once a prize boxer,” I said.

“Well, damn it, so was I,” said he, with a sniff. “Before your time,” he added quickly.

“Your schooldays don't count,” I retorted. I lit a cigarette and leaned back in my chair. My eyelids began to droop from the warmth of the sun shining through the sash windows. I heard my friend rise from the table and commence to pad about the room. The roll of a drawer, the clink of a bottle, the pop of a cork. Some tinkering and then, a wafting familiar, faint eggy aroma. Holmes's latest chemical experiment.

“Hydrogen sulfide?”

“Yes.”

“Do be careful.”

I heard him tut.

The smell of rotting eggs is hardly a pleasant one, even with the windows open. With the lack of anything resembling a breeze to disperse the invasion, I flung open the sitting-room door. 

“Mrs. Hudson!”

At extreme close quarters with our landlady, I took two steps back from the surprise. Her hand was raised, outstretched to make her rap upon the door; it froze there now as if debating what to do.

“Doctor!” said she. She retracted her hand. “I came to clear the tea-tray and to enquire as to what you both might care for your lunch.” The good woman sniffed and frowned, craning her neck into the room. “ _Whatever_ is that smell?”

“Eggs,” I said, not caring to elaborate.

It was to Mrs. Hudson's credit that she made no further comment. Neither did she exclaim loudly upon the partial undress of Mr. Holmes, who sat so nonchalantly at his mottled desk, a stub pencil scratching at his notebook. By some fine miracle these past eight years, he had yet to blow us all to smithereens, despite what seemed – upon occasion – as his very best intent to. Instead, his table bore the brunt of it, stained and woodsore, proudly stoic.

“Sandwiches would be lovely, thank you,” I said, as our landlady passed through. “Ham and mustard?” 

She smiled and nodded.

The breakfast table now cleared, I glanced at the letter from Surrey still unopened upon it.

“Holmes,” I said.

“I am too _hot_ for clothes, John.”

“Yes, I know, but it is not about that. You have not opened your letter from Surrey.”

“Well, am I an octopus? Must I do twenty things all at once?”

“The weather makes you impossible,” I told him fondly.

I stood close by the desk while he rearranged his test tubes into racks. His hair was fully dry now, if a little ruffed and wild. I stroked it gently. He leaned into the touch and rubbed his head against my palm.

“Let me just finish up here,” said he, “and then I shall come and rip open the letter.”

“Do not rush yourself on my account,” I said. “Read it next Christmas morning if you would prefer.”

I massaged his neck and shoulders, the taut sinew and muscle beneath the thin cotton of the garment. I leaned down to kiss his clavicle; butterfly pecks up to his nape. He shuddered.

“You are so beautiful,” I told him.

We remained that way, quite motionless, for a minute or even two, locked inside our quiet embrace. And then I stood back to release him that he might continue with his tidy. 

It did not take him very long. Holmes rejoined me at the table and scooped up his correspondence. He gave the envelope close attention.

“I believe I recognise the handwriting,” he said. “Now, who do we know that lives in Surrey?”

He tore the letter open without waiting for my reply. A two sheet missive in neat, blue script, that he commenced to keenly read. He frowned and sighed and sucked air through his teeth at short intervals.

“It sounds an intriguing letter,” I said.

Holmes looked up at last from the signature scrawl.

“It is from Victor Burroughs,” said he. “I am afraid that it bears grave news, John.”


	2. Aunt Augusta

I felt a pang of concern upon hearing those words. Grave news of our dear young friend, Victor? Whatever mishap could have befallen the poor fellow, after so much ill luck this past year? 

I reached for the letter that I might see for myself, but Holmes shook his head.

“I am reading it over again,” said he. “Wait a minute.”

“Might you read it aloud?”

But it appeared he might not. Holmes was silent as he scanned the two pages once more. And all the meanwhile I dandled, in morbid suspense, until he looked up from his study.

“John, I regret to tell you that the estimable Lady Augusta is deceased,” said he.

I made a sympathetic cluck and bowed my head.

“But that is not all,” my friend continued. “It all appears a little strange. But Victor has gabbled on so as regards his late aunt, that I am unsure how wholly embellished or precisely bizarre this affair stands to be.”

He rose and collected his black clay from its rack on the mantel. A large pinch of shag, which he lit and pulled at on his slow return back to the table. I had picked up the letter during this drawn-out manoeuvre, and I read it, and frowned.

“Holmes,” I said quietly, aghast. “It was murder?”

My friend resumed his seat. He tapped my hand.

“John, you surely know me well enough to realise that I never guess; it is a shocking habit. Where are these facts that point to murder? You must see that there are none. Let us go over what we have learned from Victor's letter, then, at least.

“Three days ago, at the lady's house – the dilapidated gables, do you remember? – and during the first part of that morning, Jane the maid opened the door into the drawing room. There, to her dismay, she found her mistress stretched out cold upon the floor. With presence of mind and admirable calm, the maid knelt by the lady to call out her name and to check for her pulse. She was sadly too late. Between the fingers of her right hand, it was observed that Augusta Burroughs was still clutching fast to a single rose. There were no other flowers of that description within the room. The windows were pushed open – to be expected, given the weather. The maid raised the alarm, the police were involved, and the next of kin – in this case her nephew Victor – were informed. They are still to determine the cause of death. There was a small pinprick upon one of the fingers grasping the bloom. The expression upon the poor lady's face was that of one frozen in horror.”

I held up my hand to halt the onslaught of words, for I was feeling much affected. I was not well acquainted with the lady, but had found her, on our brief meeting, to be a kind and gentle character, and I knew she was beloved of her nephew, who was surely suffering the keen loss. 

“Poison,” I said, my mind whirling. “Holmes, she must have been poisoned!”

“And why do you assume that?”

“Well! Because of the pinprick. One of the thorns had been dipped in a poison. What else might it have possibly been? Victor himself writes that her face held an expression of horror.”

“Yes,” Holmes replied, “but all the same, don't get carried away, John. You and your hypotheses. But, my goodness, these rural areas and their medics. Should it really take such an eon to determine the cause of death? And then there is the matter of the old crone who hangs by the gate, as Victor informs us. What involvement might she have? Well, it might be merely a curious local, but still – our man is on his nerves there at that house alone, and with so much to be done. We had best take the next train to Surrey. And I suppose we should pack for an overnight stay. Our fellow's state might well wish for some moral support.”

I was touched by my friend's words. Very few years ago such a kind gesture might not have occurred, as elevated as his mind was above the human state of feeling and compassion. I could not help but smile, despite my sadness at the news.

“I shall pack for us both, then,” I said. I rose from my chair and moved across to my love. I lifted his chin and kissed his mouth. His arms wrapped loose about my waist, rubbing my back through shirt and waistcoat.

“Oh!” I said then. “Oh, my. Holmes! Do you remember...?”

“Yes,” said he, with a tweak to my ribs. “I remember.”

Those precious words, as clear as from yesterday; and each and every one we uttered, stuttered inside that tiny room, and revealing for the first time:

_...Watson, I do not wish to offend you, but I confess that I care very deeply for you and might dare to hope that you feel something of the sort also..._

_...I feel the same way, Holmes, I always have..._

“And it was I who had to make the first move,” said Holmes, sounding faintly aggrieved.

I held him all the tighter then.

“I know,” I said. “I know.”

Holmes followed me into our bedroom, where he sat down upon the edge of the bed to watch as I packed.

“You _are_ going to wear some clothes, I hope,” I said, as I pulled open a drawer to remove a handful of shirts.

He winked.

An overnight bag does not take very long, even when packing for two. I tucked in the last of our needs and I fastened the clasp. I turned to my friend, who by some usual miracle had produced Bradshaw from out of thin air and was perusing it closely. He looked up from his squint.

“We might catch the three thirty,” he said. “I shall wire and tell Victor.”

By three o'clock, Sherlock Holmes had changed, via collar, shirt and fresh brilliantined hair, into the personification of a gentleman. We set out for the station, upon my part looking forward to breathing in some country air, which I hoped desperately was cooler than its city variation. The station was teeming; hundreds of travellers like so many scuttled ants. I purchased tickets for the both of us, and as quickly as we might, given the bustle and the tumult, we sought our waiting platform. It was only once ensconced, as the train proceeded to click-clack on its way, that we relaxed and took stock of our state.

“Whatever was the name of that inn?” Holmes enquired. “Where we dined out the previous time? _The Gecko & Gherkin?_ Why do all of these inns have ridiculous names?”

I smiled. “I cannot recall. You may well be right; you usually are. Victor will know. I am anxious to see him again, Holmes.”

My friend nodded, becoming thoughtful. Taking out a small black leatherbound from one of his pockets, he proceeded to read, turning sliver-thin pages at unimaginable speed. I could not make out the short title, the gold emboss being so fine, but I tarried a minute in my squint. And as brick and cobble gave way to green, I turned to gaze out through the window and amuse myself by counting cows.

The sun was deeper in the sky by the hour the Surrey train pulled in. We hired a hansom for the short ride, and so stepped down into Augusta Burroughs' lane a little after five-thirty.

“What a glorious evening,” I exclaimed. And then: “Oh! Well, I say! Holmes, _look_.”

We stood at the gate, peering through at the garden.

For where once there was decay, far too many years of neglect, now sprung fresh and renewed, clipped, pruned and planted. Lavish borders, paths and hedges, fulsome flower beds and curios. The moss-ridden fountain had been scrubbed and repaired, to reveal stone cherubs, lurching lions, both magnificent and elegant.

“It is beautiful now,” I said, wonder-struck.

“And yet the house itself is still a shambles,” my friend replied. “Come on, John.”

He propelled me through the gate and up the path to the front door. 

It opened without our having to ring the bell. A maid – the same as our first visit, I thought – stood to greet us. A summer coat and carry-all were set close by on a chair. The girl was evidently completing her shift and about ready for home. She peeped up through a pair of mournful brown eyes.

“Good evening – Jane – isn't it?” said Sherlock Holmes. “My condolences. A sad loss indeed. Is Mr. Burroughs at home?”

The maid blinked, surprised, at her name being recalled. A shy smile overtook her, although the bottom lip quivered.

“Mr. Holmes, good evening to you,” said she, with a curtsey, “and Dr. Watson, too. I am so sorry, for I was just on my way, but I shall inform Mr. Burroughs straightaway that you are here.”

“You do not live here anymore, Jane?”

The girl shook her head.

“No, sir, I do not. I have been so upset about it all, I just could not bear to remain. Although, of course, I shall keep my position until Mr. Burroughs decides what must be done.” She clasped and wrung her hands. “I am living with my sister in the village, sir.”

We were shown into the sitting room, whereupon the maid scuttled off to find our friend. I looked about in reminiscence. Nothing had been altered, as far as I could tell. The furnishings were still old and slightly tattered. Such ornaments as had been placed upon the mantel and the shelves were rubbed and jaded; much beloved, I assumed.

“I had almost forgotten about the dust,” said Holmes. 

I nudged his ribs, lest the maid return without our hearing.

“It has the potential to be such a beautiful home,” I said softly. “It is such a terrible pity.”

Holmes had stooped to scrape the cold fragments of the hearth. I saw him collect something – quite small – between his thumb and index finger and examine it most intently with his lens. I leaned over to see what it was, but he straightened up immediately and thrust his hands into his pockets.

“What was that?” I enquired. “They have lit a coal fire in the _summer?_ ”

My friend might have replied, but at that moment the door swung open and we turned to greet our host.

Victor Burroughs took three steps into the room. He held out his hand to Holmes, who grasped it firmly, held his shoulder, murmured his sincere condolences. I did the same, and inadequately I am sure, but our friend seemed grateful and most moved.

“Thank you both so much for coming,” said he. “A terrible thing. I hardly know what to say.”

“It is all right,” replied Holmes. “Just explain what you can. And it need not be now. You look as if you could do with a brandy, or a good meal, or both.”

Victor smiled. “I think you are correct. Those do sound good. My mind has been all around and over, and I don't know quite what to think. My poor aunt. Tobias has been wonderful, but he has his duties back in London at the present. I miss him so.”

“You have had so much to bear this past year,” I said. “But your reunion with Gregson is the silver lining, my dear fellow. We are happy for you both. His strength will help you see this through.”

“Yes,” replied Victor, “I am very sure that it will.”

“Victor, the garden--” I began.

Our friend cast a pair of anxious eyes to me, then to the window, to the outside and the lawn and back again.

“I don't know,” he said, his mouth downturned. “I really have no idea. Why my aunt should have had such a change of heart to bring about this... this metamorphosis... while the house still lies in disrepair, is quite beyond me. And no-one here can explain or put me straight on anything.”

He shook his head then, flapped his hands, as indication that the subject should be better kept for later. He swept out to the hall and picked up our bags – for the maid had departed – and beckoned us on to and up the stairs.

“I have had the Yellow Room prepared,” said he, as we came to the landing.

“Victor,” said Holmes, “if you wouldn't object, I rather think we would prefer the small Blue.”

Victor stared. 

“But the Blue is so tiny!” he said. “And, well, it is a twin-bedded room, and I thought...?”

“Size isn't important,” said my friend. (He heard my small impolite snort, but he paid it no heed.) “The Blue Room will be perfect. The beds can push together.”

“Well, if you are absolutely sure,” said Victor, still doubtful. “I am thankful that the room is clean, at least, for Jane has been working on the upper rooms all day at my request. The sheets might need to be changed...”

“John can do that,” said Holmes. “Thank you, Victor.”

Inside the Blue Room, with the door closed and we two alone for a quiet moment, I turned around.

“What do you _mean_ , 'John can do that'?” I demanded, cross. “Why do you always seem to take it for granted that I'll--”

Holmes swept me up in an embrace. He kissed me sharply.

“John, be quiet,” said he. “This is our room. _Our_ room. To hell with the sheets. For goodness sake, if it means that much to you then I'll change the damned things. Or we'll not change them at all. You are trying my patience.”

He kissed me again.

“Our room,” I repeated softly. “Yes, of course. You remembered its _colour_.”

“I remember everything,” said Holmes. He pinched my nose. “Please unpack our bags now. I need my toothpicks. Thank you, John.”

And he sat and smoked, and I unpacked our bags, and we looked forward to what must be later and the grand mystery in waiting.


	3. Sobriety

Victor was in the small sitting-room when we descended some few minutes later. A gasogene and several decanters had been placed upon the table. Daydreaming by the gewgaw mantel, he started alert upon our entrance and motioned us to sit.

“Please,” said he, “let me serve you a drink. There is a scotch whisky or brandy, or would you perhaps prefer a cocktail? I am not sure where the cocktail glasses _are_ , but I have no doubt that I could find them. You should see some of the bottles! Liqueurs I never heard the name of, and in simply frightful colours. Pinks and blues and greens. They must have been hidden there for years. Would you care to...?”

“ _No_ ,” said Holmes. “No, thank you. If I might have a scotch whisky, please. John will have one too. Victor, have you heard anything at all from the Coroner's office? I have no wish to distress you, but I really must know what we are dealing with here.”

Victor poured us our drinks. Sipping his own and taking a seat by the scuttle, he nodded.

“I have heard a little, but the results are not conclusive. The Coroner seems not to suspect any foul play. There are one or two tests they have yet to perform. How slow it all is! They insinuate that it was due to a weakened heart. But, oh, Mr. Holmes, the _expression_ on her face that poor Jane described to me. My aunt was scared out of her wits.”

“I shall speak with Miss Jane tomorrow,” said Holmes. “And the cook – Sally – she does not reside here either, is that correct? But she is present during the day to prepare any meals that are required? Hum, yes. Very well. I wonder what the pair of them might have really seen or heard.”

Victor threw his hands into the air, very nearly losing all of the liquid in his tumbler.

“They say, nothing unusual,” he exclaimed. “How can that be? When I myself have observed the old woman, who stands by the gate and looks through with her dark, beady eyes? And then there is the garden! I ask about it, and all they can tell me is that this fellow popped up like some magic rabbit, and spent three weeks or a month doing all of these things.”

“Tell me more of this old woman,” my friend interrupted. “She interests me particularly. How often does she appear? Have you approached her? Does she do anything apart from stare?”

“I have seen her several times from these windows,” Victor replied. “Dressed in black, with an odd hooded cape. But by the time that I open the front door, she has gone. It is as if she is a phantom.”

“Phantoms tend not to leave bootmark impressions,” said Holmes. 

My friend set his glass down and rose from his chair. We did likewise and followed him out into the garden, still warmly lit by the late-afternoon sun. Holmes strode up to the gate, crunching on shingles, where he stepped into the lane and dropped to his haunches by the post. We watched as he first examined the ground, part gravel and part earth, before returning to the house. Here he settled by the window of what I remembered to be the drawing room, and commenced the same routine. He picked up a tiny fragment, what it was I could not tell, and after a brief scrutiny placed it inside his waistcoat pocket.

“What are these _things_ that you keep picking up?” I enquired, feeling by now somewhat frustrated. “Do they have any bearing on what might have occurred?”

“Incomplete data,” said he. 

The drawing room curtains had been closed. Holmes darted back inside the house, and we entered the room where the body was found. The heat here was formidable. A fly buzzed feebly in its death throes from its perch close by the ceiling. I was struck by the silence, heavy and grey, scarcely lifting as Victor pulled the drapes to one side. A pale light filled the room. I blinked up at the swirling disturbance of dust. There was nothing, to my untrained eye, that revealed anything of note. Holmes paced from one side of the room to the other. He leant by the window frames and stooped by the rug. He collected nothing further, but at intervals I heard him tut and hum. 

Victor appeared much fascinated by the process of this enquiry. With wide eyes he tracked my friend, his face so hopeful and expectant of some positive result. I might have told him that Holmes was not given to revealing a detail until he so chose – and which was usually with a grand, dramatic flourish at the denouement.

Holmes scribbled a short record in his notebook. He stepped away and turned to us; our makeshift sentry by the door. 

“Is _The Gecko & Gherkin_ still open for custom?” he enquired.

“What? The...? Why, yes, I believe so.” Burroughs scratched at his head, a sharp, nervous movement. “But what have you found? What was it you wrote in your notebook? Mr. Holmes!” His voice rose at the last.

Holmes touched our young friend's arm.

“Victor, don't be noisy. I am still collecting data. Data, data, data,” he continued, in a sing-song fashion that was almost to himself. “Please be patient, my dear fellow. You may pull the curtains if you so wish. Now, then, shall we turn our thoughts towards something a fraction more diverting? I propose a visit to that inn with the ludicrous name, to sample their ale and most excellent pies. I fancy that an evening in convivial surroundings would do us all the power of good.”

Victor did not demur, to my relief. He tugged at my elbow, however, as we backed into the hall.

“It is just how he is,” I whispered. “Do not fret yourself about it. Holmes will reveal all when he is ready.”

Inside our room again, preparing for the short walk to the inn, I pressed my friend upon his secrecy.

“At the very least, show me what you have found,” I said.

“Oh, very well,” he said, sulking. He placed the few items in front of me.

Two cigarette stubs and a burnt edge of paper.

I picked up the paper and examined both sides. In a loping script, these words:

_'...the drawing room window at eight tomorrow. I need to speak with you again...C.'_

“A burned note,” I said. “Just the last couple of lines. It is initialled.”

“You scintillate, John,” said he. “How on _earth_ did you deduce that.”

I sighed.

“And I suppose that _you_ have come to all sorts of conclusions from the dots on the 'i's and the curls of the 'e's.”

“Of course,” said my friend. “That is what I do.”

I looked at the paper again.

“A rendezvous, just prior to the lady's demise, which may or may not be related. And these cigarette stubs. Are they of true importance?”

“Yes,” said Holmes. Then: “Shall we?”

I straightened his tie. We splashed our faces at the bowl and buffed our boots.

The evening weather was glorious, still. The three of us sauntered, inhaling the sweet scented stock by the sides of the lane. But of the mysterious lady in black we did not see a sign. _The Gecko & Gherkin_, set back a little way in its grounds, seemed most inviting as we heeled up to the latch.

The inn was all but deserted. An old patriarch in rustic garb was sitting on a high stool at the bar. He nursed his glass – a clear coloured brew – and peered over at us sleepily.

“Dickie will be with ye in a minute,” said he, slurring gently. “He is fetching up another barrel.”

We joined the fellow in his cups.

“Thank you,” said Holmes. He looked around. “Is it always as quiet as this, at this time of the evening?”

“Aye,” said the old man, “it is early yet, see. Give it time. Unless ye _prefer_ drinkin' in a morgue.” 

He cackled. I noticed Victor's wince.

“We are staying at the Burroughs' gables,” said my friend conversationally. “How beautiful the gardens are these days! I don't suppose that you know the name of the fellow who worked there?”

“Oooh,” said the man. “She's a deader, that one.” He rocked back on his stool. “As a dodo. And such a pity. What'll become of it now? The gardener fellow, you say? No idea, son. No idea. And what's that? An old woman dressed all in black, with a hood? Ha ha ha! Are ye sure ye weren't dreamin'? Never seen sight of her either. Ah'm missin' out on the fun.”

'Dickie' signalled his arrival with a sally of grunts and the thud of a barrel. An amiable man in his middle age, broad shouldered and grizzled, he gave our questions a similar parry. We ordered our drinks and our meals and selected a table by the window.

“These country folk are singularly unobservant,” said Sherlock Holmes. He looked to Victor. “Are you all right, my boy?”

Our young friend nodded, smiling weakly. He took a long draught of his ale. “And that makes it better,” said he, with a wipe of his lips. “Delicious.”

The food was very good. We ate and drank in companionable silence, counting just three patrons across the threshold in one hour. The landlord hailed them all. _Edward... Wullie... Jim_. We heard him call out to our friend, the old man, as _Hey, Mort, you need refilling?_ Our dishes mopped clean with hunks of fresh bread, we ordered three brandies and sat back to smoke. Victor told us his situation, then: of his being the sole beneficiary in his late Aunt Augusta's will. The prospect overwhelmed him.

“It will leave me the house and effects. But how am I to repair all that is needed? The roof is in a shocking mess. The walls are worse. Who would care to purchase such a property? And I cannot afford to live here by myself. Goodness knows how my aunt managed.” He shook his head. “It is a worry, I can tell you.”

We comforted him as best we could. And several hours later, with more ales imbibed than might be considered wholly sober, we wended homeward with the night air soft and sweet. The countryside, so peaceful – at least upon the surface. I wondered what might transpire upon the morrow. 

In the main hall of the house we wished our young friend a good night, and climbed the stairs to our Blue Room.

Holmes removed his tie, cast off his jacket and threw himself into a chair.

“I am tipsy,” he said, frowning slightly at this.

“Does that mean you are going to snore all the night?” I enquired with a chuckle.

“I do not snore,” he said, indignant. He leaned forward to untie his boots.

Our twin beds: conjoined and inviting. The proximity of my friend, with the shadows from the lamp casting behind him onto blue, was most affecting. 

“I want you very much,” I said. I sat upon the bed edge, almost touching knee to knee.

Holmes raised his head, his eyes half closed regarding me.

“You had better,” he said. “Lay back down, John.”

I lay back against the bedspread. My friend loomed over me, and straddled me. With long and dexterous fingers, he buttoned down my shirt, spread it wide open, cast his warm hands upon my chest. His touch, gentle and loving, brought me to arch as he pressed down. I felt his tongue tease at a nub, to softly flick and circle, to roam to hover at my navel. I believe I moaned. I reached to take his hand, that it might insinuate upon the tight cloth of my trouser front. (He kneaded there but briefly.) He switched attention to my mouth, to kiss me deeply, to stroke my face, to trace the angle of my jaw with a light thumb.

And then, to knead my prick again, becoming more insistent, drawing a small whimper from my lips.

My eyes, which had been closed in heady bliss now flickered open. Holmes was gazing down, the sincerest expression on his face.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too.”

“Take me, John, please. Any way that you'd like.”

“Remove your clothes. Over there so I can see,” I said, pointing to the amber of the lamp upon the table. 

He eased himself away and off the bed. Affecting a demureness that served to make me thrice as hard, he shucked off his braces, and so slowly – as if time itself had ceased – removed his shirt. He stopped to look at me again.

“More,” I croaked.

He buttoned down his trousers, peeled back the flap the merest inch. 

(And I confess, that by this point I had taken myself in firmer grasp and was drawing up and down, delighted beyond all measure at my friend's impromptu tease.)

“Show me,” I demanded.

Shy, almost, he drew out his prick, with some small effort, for it was quite as hard as mine.

Easing trousers and a flash of thin white cotton over narrow hips, now a dark dune on the floor, he stepped aside quite naked. He raised his arms a fraction from his sides, as if to say: _Well, this is me, and here I am, and I am yours._

“Come here, damn you,” I said, my voice dry and hoarse.

He lay beside me on the bed, as I grabbed handfuls of his flesh: his thighs, his back, his rump. I grazed him with my teeth. He let out a high-pitched whine, bucked hard against me.

“I adore you like this,” I told him fiercely. “I adore how you crave it.”

“You have the clear advantage, I'll admit,” said he between gasps.

Our loving most often concludes in this way: with he on his back, or his elbows and knees, accepting me in, fully wanton. 

(And how to compare this against the arch gentleman who emerges sprightly the next morning, once more the alpha and the dominant of we two. And I am amused and oft bemused in equal measure.)

“ _John_ , now. Now. My god, _now_.”

He is on his back, his legs are resting on my shoulders. He wants me to breach him. He is wanton.

And I adore him.

And afterwards, I reach out to shut the lamp, to turn and curl back into his arms. 

Our Blue Room, until the morning.


	4. Two Become One

Country birdsong is melodious but, rather more, it is insistent. Holmes and I were woken early the next morning by some brash species perched in a tree outside our window. The news it wished to tell us seemed most urgent, for it did not slow its trill until the both of us stirred upright in our bed.

“John, please make it stop,” said Holmes. “Throw a shoe, or a book or your pillow.”

“That might be a little awkward, with the glass pane in the way.”

I stretched and yawned and cast about for my watch. It was a quarter past seven exactly. I could hear no movement elsewhere in the house, and had to wonder if our host's head was just as woolly. My mouth was dry; I licked my lips and swallowed air.

“How are you feeling?” I asked my friend. I reached out to touch his hair. 

He peeped up from his mound of striped cotton.

“A little better than you, I dare say,” he said, smiling. “I suppose we should get up and search around for some hot water.”

I took the jug and ventured downstairs to the kitchen, where to my pleasure I found the cook already preparing a large breakfast for us all. Affable, she soon had me on my way with steaming water and the promise of a feast if we might descend in twenty minutes. 

Re-entering the Blue Room, I found the two beds separated and the pillows and the sheets arranged just so. Holmes was dressed and at the window, looking out into the grounds. The morning sun shone through and caught his face in bright, white light. I joined him there, to gaze down at the garden. My eyes strayed to the far front gate. No-one. No doubt too early.

“We should make enquiries at the village about that old biddy,” I said. Then: “We have hot water, Holmes, for shaving.”

“The village will have nothing to tell us,” said he, in his mysterious way. He pulled away and moved to the pine washstand.

We made it to the dining room with five minutes still to spare. Victor Burroughs was at table, albeit looking rather green. He waved a hand in muted greeting. As it dropped back to the cloth it made a lunge for a toast triangle.

My friend chuckled.

“They say that one should never mix the grape with the grain,” he said – unsympathetically, I thought.

“I am eating toast,” declared poor Victor. “It is about all that I can manage.” He waved his hand again, in the direction of the dishes: toast and sausages, and eggs and lean back bacon. “But do please help yourselves. It all looks very good.”

I felt immeasurably improved after a heaped plate full of everything. My third cup of piping coffee had me returned amongst the living. It was then that Jane, the maid, came in to bring the mail and see that all was well. There was a letter addressed to Victor. He tore it open, read the contents. He placed it carefully beside his empty plate.

“It is from the Coroner's office,” said he. “They have completed the last of their tests. It _was_ her heart, Mr. Holmes, as they suspected. Well, well.” He hung his head. “I fear that I have wasted your precious time.”

“Nonsense,” Holmes replied, wiping his lips upon his napkin. “There is still a greater mystery here, and Victor, with your permission I should like to pursue it to its end.”

Victor looked up. “I was so hoping that you would say that,” he said, smiling. “Thank you so much.”

After breakfast, Holmes excused himself and took off to the kitchen. The meanwhile, and at Victor's invitation we two stepped out into the early morning sun. A delicious cooling breeze captured the soft scent of the flowers. We strolled towards the fountain and perched ourselves upon its rim. A shame that it was dry, perhaps, for how spectacular it should look when in proper use. I ran a hand over the smooth, clean stone, warm to the touch, so pleasant. 

Victor pointed out a number of the flower beds, their unusual blooms and buds.

“I had better take on a little watering here myself,” he said, “else it won't look beautiful for long. Or perhaps Jane might agree to do it, if I ask her very nicely.”

“What will you do about the servants?” I asked. “How much longer will you stay here?”

“My boss has given me until the end of the week,” the young man replied. “Tobias will be here for the weekend. As for the servants, they are paid up to the month end, and after that I do not know. I suppose that I should speak with them about it.”

We watched in curiosity as an old woman passed by the gate, a heavy sack over her shoulder. She grunted to herself as she continued down the lane. A rogue apple or potato made its escape from the loose neck and bounced away. Cursing blue, she chased it, her precious quarry rolling, rolling. A few seconds later and she had disappeared from view. 

Victor and I were much amused by this diversion.

“I presume that was not...?”

“No,” said he, “I am sure that it was not.”

After a few further minutes, the gathering heat from the stone bid us rise and move on. We followed the pathways and paused by the blossoms that most caught our eye. Small birds in the treetops sang down to us, joyful. 

We accessed the rear gardens and were admiring the fine structure of some tall, sweet-smelling mass (and here I cannot be precise, for flowers never were my forte), when Holmes hove into view.

“Well, here you are,” said he, “and whatever are you doing?”

“Admiring the flowers,” I said. “Which must seem very strange to you.”

“Not at all,” said my friend. “I like roses. What a lovely thing a--”

I cut him short with a nudge to his ribs.

“No,” I said. “Just, no. _Not_ again.”

We three sat down upon a bench beneath the shade of a broad oak.

“What did the servants have to say?” I asked.

He pulled a face.

“It is the way of country staff that they ask no questions at the time but gossip much about it later. Jane informs me that the gardener appeared and was in service for a month. It was understood his time should not extend far beyond that. During this period, he carried out all of the work here as you see it. He was cheerful – for both servants heard him whistling as he worked – and there was nothing in the lady's manner during this time that caused concern. Jane heard her mistress and the gardener talking together more than once, and what she overheard was always genial. I have a fair description of the fellow, at any rate.”

Holmes stood.

“Victor, do I have your permission to examine the contents of the bureau?”

“By all means, go ahead,” said our friend. “You have the freedom of the house.”

I followed Holmes inside the gables and to the study, leaving Victor on his bench. Holmes set himself upon the bureau, which was encumbered with many papers, rolls and scrap-notes.

“What a mess,” said he. “Look, John. Invoices dating back to _'68_. Tchaw!”

“And now they are all on the floor,” I said dryly, observing the maelstrom as it searched for more data. “What are you looking for, exactly?”

“Why, a sample of handwriting that matches the one on the burnt paper. Anything that might relate to the garden itself. Honestly, John, what do you _imagine_ I am looking for? A naval treaty tied with a pink ribbon?”

“A what? Well, no, of course not. Can I help in any way?”

“You can help by not asking absurd questions.”

There was an interim while Holmes tugged open drawers, rifled the contents. The desk was a snowstorm of paper. At length he straightened up and banged hard shut the bureau lid.

“Not one single thing,” he said, his mouth turned down in disappointment. “Not an invoice, nor a letter or a document that bears any relation. It is most annoying. But also very interesting.”

“Might it have been an old friend, returning a favour? If it was not his profession, he would have not raised an invoice. Holmes, I say, I wonder if he was paid at all?”

“It is all conjecture. I am going to search the house. Come with me, John, or not, but I would value your assistance.”

We took the downstairs rooms to task: the cabinets and cupboards and the mantels, where odd envelopes and documents might lurk. Pencilled shopping lists, _aide-mémoires_ , half completed paper puzzles. Picture postcards tucked between the dusty volumes on the bookshelves. I was admiring one of these – a still life of fruits and flowers, mixed – when Holmes grasped me by the arm.

“I have found something,” he said, his tone triumphant. “Behind a sofa cushion, of all places.” 

He handed me a note. I raised it to the light, and read:

_'Thank you for the monies. I enjoyed our talk about the flowers. I have something else I need to tell you, but I am feeling awkward about it. I may write again or come to call, and I do hope you will allow it. C.'_

I looked at my friend to see his eyes were burning brightly.

“Holmes!” I said, “this is... what _is_ it? A love letter?”

“It is dated just one week ago,” said Holmes. “The next note may have been the one burnt in the hearth. John, what can you deduce from this handwriting?”

I studied the scrawl. It looked very normal to me.

“The tails and stems are looped... er, the ink is a light blue... There are no misspellings...”

I looked up, helpless.

My friend rolled his eyes.

“Do you remember the cigarette stubs?” he said.

I frowned, not a little confused by the switch in the topic.

“Yes? There were two?”

“Yes. Two. One was by the gate, and the other was by the window where Aunt Augusta met her guest. John, you must pay attention. _They were of the same, unusual brand._ ”

“But...” I stopped. “Unusual?”

“ _Most_ unusual. Imported from Cuba and rarely seen in this country.” 

“I am confused,” I said honestly. “What does it mean?”

Holmes drummed his fingers on the mantel. He closed his eyes.

“The handwriting is that of a woman's,” he said.

“Oh! But...?” I scratched my head. “But the note was from the gardener, surely? So, if it was not from the gardener, then...?”

“It _might_ be from the gardener,” said my friend.

“I really do not understand anything now,” I said. “The gardener and the old woman _are the same person?_ ”

Holmes clapped his hands in delight.

“I do not know,” he said, laughing, “but it is all too delicious. Come, John, let us go and find Victor.”


	5. The Gatepost Ghost

Victor half-rose from his bench as we made our approach. For twenty minutes we had scoured the upper floor rooms: the main bedroom and storage, and the spare furnished chambers without great revelation. Where the ground floor was snug in its cloth and its clutter, the first floor remained spartan to the brink of neglect. 

We drew level with our friend.

“What is it? What have you found?” he asked, eager. 

I imagined that Holmes would tell him, then. But perhaps he wished to spare him the perplexion and the doubt, for he said nothing much of solace but:

“Victor, we are going into the village for an hour. While we are gone, I must ask you that you take watch by the front for that old woman. You must not glance away for even a second. If you should see her, she _cannot_ elude you. You must speak with her, find out her name and where she lives and what she wants here. Do I make myself clear? Memorise her features and her voice and anything strange at all that strikes you. Can you do that for me? Thank you. I rather hope that we might find her before you do. But it is no good for us to sit here as we are in one great huddle.”

Victor's face was troubled. He skittered close behind us as we headed for the front gate and the lane.

“What might she do?” he enquired, anxious. “And what has she already done? Mr. Holmes! I do not like this, but I shall do as you request.”

We watched him return inside and set up a seat at the front window of the sitting-room. He waved a little shyly as we turned to make our way. The lane was clear and tranquil; the only sound the ruffling leaves above our heads, the distant birdsong. Holmes placed a casual hand upon my shoulder.

“You did not tell him,” I said, in thought.

“No, I did not,” said my friend, “for what good would it do? To fill his head up with nonsense, when we ourselves know so little?”

Holmes quickened his pace, the sandy grit rising in sharp huffs at his boots. I broke into a trot to draw up level with his peeve.

“Slow down,” I said. “Where are we going, now, exactly?”

The village, as it so happened, was small, close-knit. A cluster of neat shops, a doctor's surgery, a school. Extending out were leafy lanes with pleasant cottages and stables. 

“Holmes, you told me earlier that the village would know nothing.” – I paused to mop my forehead, as the sun shone down, relentless. – “Why did you say that, and how do you know?”

“Why, due to the fact that the central hub of any village is its inn,” my friend replied. “It is the place where news and gossip always inevitably land. The fact that our innkeeper friend and his crowd could tell us little is revealing. Our gatepost ghost, in all her forms, likely does not frequent this patch.”

“Then why are we here?” I demanded.

“Because where others merely see,” said Holmes, “I, of course, _observe_.”

“Of course you do,” I said, rolling my eyes. “How foolish of me.”

We spoke with the clerks and the counter assistants. Holmes exchanged words with the various good people as they went about their day with shopping baskets, sacks and barrows. We rambled along the leafy lanes and stepped aside to clear the way for three young lads astride small ponies as they clattered off on morning exercise. We learned of the neighbouring towns from the crimson-faced postman, out doing his rounds. He, as the others, claimed not to know of any gardener, nor old lady dressed in black per our description.

“This is hopeless,” I said. “It is as if they did not exist.”

“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” said Holmes, his head cocked in a whimsy. 

A raggle-taggle terrier bounded up from out of nowhere. Excited by the two new friends within its province, it jumped and barked and showed great sport, its scrufftail wagging hard enough to set the body to mad tremor.

“Easy, boy, now, easy,” said my friend. 

We stooped to pet the animal, to calm its mania. (I have always been fond of dogs, owning one – a jolly mongrel (we named him Teddy) – as a boy. My university studies and subsequent army career had precluded my owning another. Impractical now, too, as then.)

Holmes was talking softly to the terrier, praising its spirit, patting down its sandy haunch. He examined the brass name tag at the collar.

“ _Rusty_ ,” he read. The dog wagged its tail all the more. Holmes looked up at me, eyes squinting from the sharp glare of the sun. “John, for goodness sake, why do you smile like that?”

“You,” I said. “You and animals. You are very good with them, you know.”

“They are often preferable to our own species,” said he, blinking. “But I wonder who this boy belongs to.”

“He is not a stray, at least,” I said. “He is well fed, and has a collar, don't you, Rusty?”

Rusty turned his attention to a gorse bush. He sniffed around it, cocked his leg.

“John, mind your boots,” said Holmes, side-stepping. He pulled his watch out from his pocket and frowned at the time. “Well, we should get back to the task at hand – which is _not_ stroking terriers to have them scrape at our trousers. This is a strange search that we are on. We cannot trek for miles in all directions, that much is certain. We should return to the house in a short while. Perhaps Victor has had better luck.”

We had been walking for ten minutes before Holmes glanced back behind us. He began to chuckle. I turned, to see our furry friend had followed us, was standing still and waiting, both ears cocked, tail wagging.

“Whatever can he want?” my friend mused. “Shoo, Rusty! Go home.”

The dog looked at us both. It seemed almost to grin; its tongue lolled from the side of its mouth as it panted.

“He is thirsty,” I said. “I wish we knew where he lived.”

Our group of three marched on. The birds sang in shrill harmony around us. The air smelled sweet. And how enjoyable a walk it was, despite the heat.

Victor was still obediently sat by the window as we traipsed to the gate a full half-an-hour later. He met us at the door, with his expression telling us all we wished to know.

“She did not come,” said he, half agonised. “And I did not move for three full hours. I am as familiar with the shadow from the gate post as I am with my own thumbprint.” He shrugged. “That is a terrible analogy, but never mind. You should go home, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. I truly _am_ wasting your time.”

“We shall leave, yes, I think,” replied Holmes. “But you must contact us again, without any delay, if you or your staff see either person again. I shall make my own enquiry back in London. Do not lose hope, my boy. We are working on your side, and shall return before the weekend. Oh, and by the way, might we trouble you for a bowl of water for our friend?”

Victor stared down at the terrier. He nodded, then brightened.

“Oh, yes,” said he, “you must travel back on Friday with Tobias.”

Upstairs in the Blue Room, I threw together the last of our things and looked around at the snug. I had grown rather fond of the cracks in its walls and the uneven floor. I said as much to Holmes, who stood behind me now, arms wrapped around. His fingers probed my waistcoat pocket.

“You won't find any liquorice there,” I informed him.

He huffed a soft laugh.

“Then where are you hiding it,” he said, all mock hurt.

“You wish to feed some to the _dog?_ ”

“What? No.” He pecked my ear. “Silly man.”

We stood there, kissing, as young lovers, in the middle of the room. The neither of us wished to leave our nest, it seemed, and yet it should be soon. At length we separated, took up our hats and bags and, stepping out, clicked soft shut the Blue Room door behind us both.

The water bowl was empty when we paused upon the outside step. The terrier was nowhere to be seen. We shook Victor's hand, made our promises and farewells, and left the cluttered gables for the swelter of old London.

“But what will you _do?_ ” I asked, as the home train rattled.

“I will think for a while,” said my friend, and he did.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I threw our bags into a corner of the sitting-room, and raised the windows open. The air no longer sweet with scented flowers, stock and shrub, but rather heavier with fug and city odour. I collapsed into my chair and felt around for my clay pipe. Holmes joined me in my smoke, with one hand waving high the post.

“Letters and telegrams,” said he. “It is either feast or famine and very little inbetween.”

“Well, that's good for you at any rate,” I said. I watched him as he ripped open the first letter from the pile.

Then, curious, I watched him as his lip twitched, frowned and set.

“What is it?”

“It is a letter from Langdale Pike,” said Holmes. “In green ink, yet again. Or rather, this time it's a warning.”

“A warning?”

“John, do you remember PC Spencer?”

I thought hard for a moment.

“Was he the lad who was so helpful in the Case of the Golden Trumpet?”

“Alas, no.”

“Well, then, was he the constable who leapt down into the well in the Mystery of the Floating Box? No – wait – I think that was PC Lancer. ...Holmes, I have no idea.”

“He was the young man responsible for those charming typed notes, back in the day when I still thought of Gregson as both a bounder and a fool.”

I remembered the gentleman now. I stared at my friend.

“What news of him, then?” I enquired.

Holmes tossed me the letter.

“Oh, little,” said he, “except that he has risen again, and is in contact with Pike, wanting cash for great scandal. _Our_ scandal.”

Holmes paused to light his pipe.

“Such as it was, or is,” he added, with a shrug.

“But this is terrible!” I said, in consternation. “We are at Pike's mercy?”

I picked up the letter and read it. 

“Pike wishes to meet you,” I said, my heart cold in my chest.

“Yes,” said Holmes. “He does.”

“He is a dangerous friend now.”

“Pike was never a friend,” replied Holmes. “But then, he was never a foe. At the least, I shall meet with him and see what he says. He has included no terms in his letter. Dear me, John, what _is_ it with these people and their blackmail? They are always so exceptionally tiresome.”

“It is a sign of these times,” I said glumly. “There are too many laws and for ridiculous reasons.”

“We shall see Pike tomorrow,” said Holmes. “But tonight, let us not dwell on the negative. We shall dine at Marcini's and drink more than we ought. And you will _smile_ , John, for heaven's sake. Come, now, finish your pipe, for we ought to unpack our night bags and advise Mrs. Hudson.”

I took some comfort in the fact that Holmes seemed not overly dismayed by this new twist. He whistled as he put away his shirts and replaced his razor on the wash stand. He hummed a waltz whilst turning to his remaining correspondence, as our landlady brought us tea and listened to our Surrey news.

And I, the meanwhile, while taking in this so-called comfort, still could not keep my thoughts from straying to spider-lines of bright green ink, and gatepost phantoms from afar.


	6. An Exceedingly Unpleasant Ex Police Constable

“So where will you be making enquiries, Holmes?”

It was the Thursday morning, early. And despite the looming inevitability of our meeting with the odious Pike, we were enjoying a generous breakfast of kippers and eggs – which danced an internal quadrille with the fresh seafood platter from the previous night. _Things cannot be so bad_ , I thought repeatedly to myself. _If Holmes was of the opinion we were in danger, he would not be eating, nor be so relaxed about it all._

In order to push Langdale Pike from my mind, I mused on the events as they had developed in Surrey. The burned note in the fireplace... the cigarette stubs... the talented gardener and the lady in black – who may or may not be the one and the same. What good could my friend do in London, I wondered, when he was so far from the house and its circling storm?

Holmes tapped out the dottle from his pipe and set it back upon the rack.

“Cuba,” said he, in response to my question. “We must stop by the telegraph office on the way to the club.”

“But who on earth do you know out in Cuba?”

“It is not who _I_ know... oh, John...”

He shook his head, as if I must be a slow simpleton indeed. And it is partway true, of course; I am. As most men are, if they should be compared with that great brain – its owner now engrossed in some thick volume propped half open, making notes and sighing soft into his coffee cup.

“I do not like Pike,” I said then, my thoughts in a jitter and northbound from Surrey. “I do not care for any man who would take pleasure in others' trouble.”

Holmes reached out across the table, took my hand and squeezed it briefly.

“That is not the sum of Pike. He is a gossip-monger for the news sheets, and well-known, but nothing more.”

“Well, it all amounts to the same thing.”

It amounted to the pair of us turning right into St. James's Street at a little after nine. The club doors were propped wide open. We entered through the arch and took the few steps to the desk.

The corridors we walked down were quite empty at this time, and our footsteps rang most pleasant on the tile. Pike's room was familiar to us: a strung mess of chairs and shelving. The morning sunlight, blazing clean straight through the lattice, had us blinking for our host, his usual perch now sitting empty.

“Mr. Holmes!” came a bright cry, from a small table by an alcove. “Oh, Mr. Holmes!”

“Pike,” said my friend.

We remained just where we were, upon a faded carpet runner.

The figure emerged from its prism of shadow.

“Well, you mustn't stand on ceremony,” said Langdale Pike. “Come in, sit down, and all that. Ha!” He rubbed his hands. “You are looking very dapper.”

Pike's hair was longer than before, if such a feat were even possible. His mouth flapped around his face as if it might wish to fly away just to escape its narrow confines. He was dressed in an extraordinary outfit: some dark green velvet, a tapered collar, an absurd white ruffle at the cuffs.

He bowed before us, waved us to a pair of empty padded chairs.

“Sit, sit!” he said.

On the table was a tray, laden with teapot, cups and saucers and an oval covered dish. Pike made a grand gesture towards it.

“The tea is still hot. Would you care for a cup?”

My friend shook his head. I found myself wanting. Nodding, I watched in emerging dismay as our man in green velvet tipped forward the pot, to pour out a half-cup of a similar hue.

“Thank you,” I said. I raised the cup to my lips. The smell was astringent. I took a small sip. The taste was far worse.

“Might I tempt you with cake?”

Langdale Pike whisked the top from the engraved silver dish. A fresh baked cake sat iced and timorous within. 

“It is... also green,” I said, eyes boggling.

“Well, naturally,” said he, with an undertone of pique.

“If you are resolute on poisoning us, then I admire the stalwart effort,” said Holmes. He leaned forward in his chair. “What is this all about, Pike? I am referring to the _letter_ , not the damned cake. Stop gazing at it.”

Pike lifted languid eyes up to my friend. He assumed a mournful moue.

“Have you been naughty?” he enquired, as one might of a small child. “Someone has confided to me that you have.”

Holmes did not reply. He fixed the fellow with a grey, metallic stare. Pike bore it bravely for half a minute until the second he could not.

“I bear no malice, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “In fact, it is the opposite. I have grown somewhat... _fond_ of your... ripostes. Your _debonair_ charm. Your... _elan_. Oh, yes, indeed.”

“What has he said, Pike, and what do you want?” said my friend.

Langdale Pike poured himself a fresh cup of the vile tea. He swallowed a third of it, and smacked his lips with some relish.

“I do not want anything,” he said. “Ha ha! See, that has surprised you, now, I think.” 

He set down his cup and looked around – the room remained empty and discreet – and then leaned forward until my friend and he were almost nose-to-nose. 

“Mr. Holmes, now, did you really believe that I was _unaware_ you were an invert? Birds of a feather, my dear comrade. If I had really cared to damage you, I might have done so before now. That _preposterous_ little pipsqueak came to see me here, three days ago. You are no doubt unaware that he was expelled from the police force very recently. Hmm, hmm. He did not care to elaborate. His mother has disowned him. He would not elaborate on that _either_. What he _did_ choose to utter more than six words on, was how he came to know of you and your _fascinating affaire de coeur_ with the good Dr. Watson.”

Pike chuckled to himself. His long fingers curled around his upper arms, as if in self-congratulation.

“Do go on,” my friend said, tight-lipped.

“Hmm, hmm! He has no evidence, you know. Only what he heard. Which, my dear Mr. Holmes, he promises was quite _considerable_. And so he thinks his spoken word is worth a hundred pounds. Good gracious me, the greater fool he is.”

Pike tapped my friend upon the knee and leaned back in his chair.

“He has no income and is quite desperate,” the dandy continued. “I suppose his silence could be bought if you yourselves wished to pay the price.”

“We will not be blackmailed by him, Pike,” said Holmes.

Pike nodded, and his concern – to my surprise – appeared sincere.

“I do know that,” said he. “And I do intend to turn him down. My letter and this meeting only serves as friendly warning. What you choose to do about this tomfool is your concern. I have his exclusive interest for a day or two or more, but then I fear that he may turn to other avenues.”

“How do we know that we can trust you?” I demanded, my temper rising.

Pike turned to me. For the most part of our meeting he had managed to ignore me very well.

“I always keep my word,” said he. “Mr. Holmes can attest to that.” He glanced at Holmes, who nodded slightly. “ _Thank_ you. You see, Dr. Watson, that although admittedly my trade is somewhat _scandalous_ according to your mindset, there is a fine morality of sorts. The deserving always fall. Those on the side of the greater good should not need to rue their... _indiscretions_. Mr. Holmes and, I may dare say, yourself, fall within the latter camp.”

“We must deal with Spencer,” said my friend. “This will be interesting.”

“You know where to begin,” replied Pike.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Insufferable little tart,” I said, once we were back out on the street.

Holmes, despite his brooding these past minutes, broke into laughter. He leaned against the wall, hands to his hips, his head thrown back.

“I am so glad that you find this amusing,” I grumbled.

“Oh, John, I am sorry, but that was just what I needed,” said he. “I don't remember you using that precise turn of phrase before now.”

“Well, never mind that. What are we doing to do now? This is a terrible mess.”

Holmes took me by the arm and drew me gently down the street towards an idling hansom cab.

“We must go to Scotland Yard,” said he, “and have a word with Gregson.”

Inspector Gregson, as it turned out, was on the other side of London on a case investigation and not due back until the morrow. Lestrade, however, was pleased to see us both. He ushered us inside his tiny office where we made small talk for ten minutes, and drank tea – strong brewed, delicious – for five more. At length he came to question the genuine reason for our visit.

“PC Joseph Spencer,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I understand he is no longer with the force.”

Lestrade looked at us queerly.

“That is right. It was a month ago. But how did you come to hear of that?”

“A little bird,” my friend replied. “Might you tell us the reason why?”

“It is a confidential matter,” Lestrade began, with some asperity. He looked at us, one to the other, saw our expressions, which for myself was fairly grey. “Here, now, whatever is it? Is he involved in something 'off'?”

“A little 'off', yes, you could say. Inspector, you know I should not ask you if it were not absolutely vital. And it is vital, please believe me.”

Lestrade pushed a box of cigarettes across the desk towards us. He tossed a matchbook as an afterthought, and watched us as we lit and smoked.

“Abuse of privilege, Mr. Holmes,” said the Inspector, after an interminable pause. “Unprovoked violence against random suspects in our cells. Accepting bribes. Well, we don't tolerate that sort of thing here at the Yard. Not any more. I like to think we are a better bunch than we once were.” 

Lestrade drummed his thick fingers on the desk.

“Has he made contact, Mr. Holmes?”

“I suppose you could say that, in a manner of speaking.”

“Anything that I might be of service with?”

“I think not, but thank you all the same.”

Although alight with curiosity, the Inspector nodded and said nothing. He knew of us, of course – I think – but always as an unspoken understanding, and we were grateful for his kindness and discretion.

Even so, the loose-tongued underworld with its coin exchanged for secrets, upheld its own laws that the probing of the police might serve to aggravate.

A little silver-tonguework from my friend, and we had procured the last known address of ex PC Spencer.

“Whatever it is that you are doing, I must urge you to be careful, Mr. Holmes,” said the Inspector.

“Yes, Holmes,” I said, as the door of Scotland Yard clicked shut behind us, “you must be careful.” I looked to left and right. “Please don't tell me that we are going to that filthy fellow's home?”

“You may wish to return to Baker Street, John, and I shall continue alone.”

“You most certainly will not.” 

Spencer lived a carriage ride away. It took us thirty minutes to arrive in Pinchin Road and to locate the number eight. A modest little house it was, squeezed tight between two others as if it had no room to breathe. We stood beside a lamp post, watched the stream of passers-by. I had no idea of my friend's intent; if he should knock upon the door or merely stand by as a sentry. I was nervous, I'll admit it, and I cursed myself for being so.

The door of number eight creaked open, and we two sprang to attention.

“My word,” said Holmes, “don't say that Spencer saw us from this distance.”

The door yawned wider yet. And there – yes – there he was, still so familiar to us even out of uniform.

He was looking back behind him, into the house, and then:

“Come _on_ , what are you waiting for? Come _on_.”

And his companion came into view at last, hesitating on the threshold.

And Holmes and I stood, dumbstruck.

“But... Holmes...! That is... but...!”

“Yes, it is, and I'll be damned,” said he.


	7. Secrets and Flies

Spencer pulled the front door smartly shut. We watched him as he fumbled with his key, and then start to stride away towards the town. He looked back and snapped his fingers in impatience. He whistled loudly.

His attention was so wholly on that sandy coloured terrier that he did not notice us at all, nor the fact that Holmes had taken one step out from behind the lamp post to track his path.

“ _Rusty_ , come here,” the ex police constable bellowed. “Oh, for the love of...”

The dog was nosing around the doorstep, but upon hearing its master's foghorn of command it trotted off to keep his heel.

“Holmes, I don't understand--” I began.

“John, there's no time; we must follow,” my friend said.

We set off at a slow pace, keeping well hidden by the jostle of pedestrians and street carts. Spencer's route was not meandering, but headed straight for the lower and popular commercial quarter.

“Spencer was in Surrey, then,” I hissed – for I must speak now or burst a blood vessel in angry indignation. “And little Rusty _is his dog_. Spencer was following us!”

“So it would appear,” said Holmes.

And despite the heat, I felt a shiver through my spine. My brain did its utmost to process this fresh information. We had taken the train down to Surrey. Somehow, this Spencer had observed our departure and pursued us, with Rusty in tow. Taking note of arrangements he had set his own base camp, and then while he spied – on us, on the house, and presumably on Victor – the terrier Rusty had made his own sport. What a coincidence that we should meet the pup and make a tender fuss of him.

“But why, Holmes? And how was it that we did not suspect a thing?” 

Our man was still in sight. He ducked down an alley and whistled shrilly for his dog to keep the pace.

A further thought struck me and I clutched my friend's arm.

“Holmes...!”

“John, wait,” said he, “our man has just disappeared inside that building.”

Rusty was sitting outside on the pavement, with his eyes fixed to the door. Above him, nailed quite crudely to the brick, a small and flaking painted sign.

“The back entrance of Figgis and Barrow,” said Holmes. “Now, that is suggestive.”

“The pawnbroker's,” I said. “What is suggestive about that?”

“Why, the fact that Spencer is using the back doorway. It is a shop that he must visit very often, and feels some shame in doing so. He does not wish to be observed and judged by others. Hence, the back in preference to the front. No! Don't get too close. If that terrier catches sight of us it will be too bad.”

We drew back around a corner, waiting. This area was quieter than the main street. The intermingling scents that wafted from the nearby butcher and the baker sited opposite were first acrid and then powder sweet. Rusty nosed the air and whined. Somewhere close by, a barrel or a crate crashed to the ground, startling the animal. He began to yip and paw the door.

“Holmes, I have a terrible feeling that--”

The back door swung wide open. Spencer's frame hove into view. The terrier leaped in joy as if he had not seen his master for a week. The man bent to rub the scruff-haired ears, to tug lightly on the collar. _Come on then, boy, come on then, let's go home._

Behind our wall, we waited until the footsteps had receded. Holmes slapped my shoulder.

“Wait here, John,” said he, “I shall be just a few minutes.”

He stepped briskly out into the narrow street and in through the broker's door.

I waited, still on tenterhooks. The smell of rotting offal assailed my nostrils and made me blench. Bluebottles buzzed a Symphony in D. I wished my friend might hurry up.

He was back with me soon enough, his eyebrows raised, lips tightly pursed.

“Two engraved gold pocket watches, one silver chain, a silver locket and a key fob, John,” he said. “And that was just today. Mr. Figgis informs me that these past weeks he has accepted three signet rings, a silver compass timepiece and a pair of diamond earrings from this fellow. What does _that_ tell you?”

I scratched my moustache.

“It tells me that Spencer is running short of money and he has resorted to hocking his valuables,” I replied.

“Yes, but _three_ pocket watches? And ladies' jewellery? I would wager that he had acquired them by some other means than inheritance or honesty. Call me a cynic, John, but really.”

“Stolen, then. So what are we going to do? Why did he follow us to Surrey?”

“By that point, Spencer would have already endured his meeting with Pike. He would be anxious, then, suspicious – and rightly so – of being double crossed. So he keeps a watchful eye, perhaps, on Baker Street. And of course, what does he see but us departing, bags in hand, for who knows where. Panicked, he needs to know where we are headed. With no time to leave his dog at home, he jumps on the train to follow us. I am merely surmising. ... Drat it, John.” Holmes struck the brick wall with his fist. “Spencer must be oddly skilled in the art of shadowing, otherwise I should have spotted him.”

“Holmes, do you think he could have been...?”

“The old lady in black? Well, she was in evidence before we ever got there, do remember.”

“I suppose so.” I took his hand and smoothed away the knuckle graze. “You shouldn't _do_ that, you could easily break a bone.”

We left the back street, passing by the foul-smelling butcher's shop and heading, I supposed, in the direction towards Baker Street. This seemed not to be the case as Holmes turned back.

“Go home, John,” he said, “I insist now. I must go and see Spencer, and I must go there alone.”

“But--”

He would not listen to my protest. He explained that Spencer would likely feel threatened by the presence of us both, and his reactions could be unpredictable. And then of course, there was my temper – one of my failings – and I knew that Holmes was right. I would find it next to impossible to stand by and remain calm while listening to the sneers and threats from that odious man.

I refused to return home, however. I told my friend that he should find me in the establishment across the road – I pointed – and to meet me there the minute he was able.

I watched him as he walked away towards the Pinchin Road. I took a table in the window of the Tabernacle Tea-Rooms, and made my order for a large pot of Earl Grey and a roast beef sandwich that I could not taste at all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a little after midday when Holmes rejoined me. He slid into a chair, loosened his jacket and reached out to shake the teapot. There was enough still for one cup, which he prepared and took a sip from. I, the meanwhile, was all anxiety and questions. All around us, a happy hum of contented people drinking their tea and eating fondants. They might not even have existed, such was the extent of my focus on my friend.

“Any man who has nothing to lose is a dangerous foe,” said Holmes at last, a wry twist to his face.

“You spoke with him then? Did he...?”

“Of course I spoke with him. He was not at all pleased to see me, I assure you, although his dog was in near ecstasy. I made it only as far as the hallway; he would not entertain having me further inside his dump. So we stood there as a couple of skittles and said all that we had to. He was much angered by Pike's deception, and he made it very clear that he would stop at nothing now. He has nothing to lose, John, you see. He has no stability, no position, no family bond, for his dishonour has shamed his poor mother who wants nothing more to do with him. He will not listen to reason. He threw some charming insults in my direction, and that was that.”

I shook my head. “Then we _must_ involve the police, Holmes. Declare it as slander. Lestrade will stand by us, as will Gregson.”

Holmes tutted in exasperation.

“That would be suicide,” said he. “Two sympathetic parties, yes, but then all the rest of Scotland Yard would be ablaze with gossip. How could they keep it quiet? Regardless of Spencer's reputation as it is now, he was once a capable police constable. How many Yarders would choose to believe his side of the story? I have less than no desire to find that out.”

Holmes pushed his chair back and stood up. We stepped out into the street and blinked the noon sun from our eyes. My friend hailed a hansom, and then to my considerable surprise gave Pall Mall as the instruction to our driver.

“We are going to visit Mycroft?”

Holmes nodded mutely.

We were quiet inside the cab. My friend gazed from his window, and I from mine. The late morning bustle and the noise of commercial London. Gradually, the carriage drew away and out towards the private club. Holmes turned to me. He touched my leg but lightly.

“I hate to admit it to myself, John.”

“I know,” I said. “You are not at fault.”

“And now I will have to _tell_ him. And I never did, you know.”

“I know.”

“I hate it. And please don't say _'I know'_.”

“All right.”

Mycroft Holmes was in his office. We had chanced upon the lunchtime scrum, and Mycroft seemed about to join it, or rather would have, had we not barged into his quarters at that moment.

“Why, Sherlock, John,” said he. “How unexpected.” He took a closer look at us. “What has happened?”

“Mycroft, please be aware from the very outset,” said my friend, “that you are not allowed to crow or say 'I told you so'.”

And so, for the next ten minutes, Sherlock Holmes regaled his brother with the events concerning Spencer as they had taken place thus far. Mycroft sat back behind his desk; his brows converged, his lips pursed tight. He nodded, at short intervals, until my friend had finished.

“Well, well,” said Mycroft Holmes, “this is a very pretty mess.”

“I am quite aware of that,” said my friend.

“You would ask for my help?”

“If it is not too much trouble.”

“You are of the notion that I possess a magic wand?”

“Quite frankly, yes.”

The two brothers regarded one another for a duration. The elder sighed a heavy sigh.

“Just this one time, Sherlock. And I must _implore_ you that in the future you take far greater care.”

“We do take care. We were at home.”

“Yes. In your _sitting-room_ , where any man might call on point of business. I declare that this family will be the death of me. First Ulysses' terrible deed, and now this.” Mycroft stopped himself abruptly. “I mean to say, of course, that all families have their trouble. I shall take the necessary steps. Would you care to have some lunch here? I can arrange a table for you if you desire it.”

“No, Mycroft, thank you,” said my friend in an odd tone. “We had best be leaving. Please extend our warm regards to dear Sophronia and Jeremiah.”

Holmes fairly took off down the hallway and did not slow until we reached the cool marble foyer.

“Wait,” I exhaled, catching hold of his arm. I was dimly aware that I had repeated the words – _Wait!_ and _What?_ – more frequently these three days than at any time the past year. “Holmes, wait. What will Mycroft _do?_ Is it safe now? What will happen? I understood him to hold a governmental position?”

Holmes turned to me. His expression was unreadable.

“Mycroft will take care of things,” said he. 

“That sounds terribly ominous. But whatever did Mycroft mean, when he spoke of 'Ulysses' terrible deed'?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” said Holmes. “Come on, John, let's go home.”

I followed my friend back out into Pall Mall. My head was full of Mycroft, and the strangeness of the day. We took another cab and were at Baker Street quite shortly. I could not settle. I scratched around for my pipe and tobacco, I paced the room and puffed great smoke clouds at the ceiling. Holmes observed my quandary for several minutes. At last he could bear it no longer and drew me down level by his side on the sofa.

“What is troubling you?” he enquired. He kissed my cheek and placed an arm across my shoulders. “You must not worry. Cast this whole business from your mind now.”

“I shall try. But about Mycroft...?”

Holmes appeared not to be listening. 

“We could take another turn upon the hearth-rug, if that would cheer you and if you promise to be quieter this time.”

That made me chuckle, half in amusement, half in horror.

And Mrs. Hudson came up later with a telegram for Holmes. It pertained to Victor's mystery, and carried news from Cuba. Holmes read it through and grunted, but would tell me nothing of it.

“Tomorrow, John, we travel back to Surrey,” he told me, yawning. “But before that, a quiet evening and a good night's sleep will do us both the world of good.”

“You are optimistic, then?”

He smiled shortly.

“John, my beloved, I am _always_ optimistic.”


	8. The Fragility of Strings

We passed a quiet evening and enjoyed a sound night's sleep. Or – at least – we slept. For I had dreamed, and tossed and turned, as the strange forms filled my sub-conscious. My nightmare compelled the former PC Spencer through the foggy London streets. _Keep to the path and do not stray, for who knows what the boondocks say?_ I lost him very often and had to sprint to catch his shadow. And from somewhere in the distance, Mycroft's voice: _“Why, Mr. Spencer, there you are! You kept us waiting...”_ The fog grew denser, it obscured all, everything. I spun around, called out for Holmes and by his first name. _Sherlock... Sherlock!_

The early Friday morn saw me awake and in a tussle with my thoughts, for I do so loathe unpleasant dreams. I threw myself onto my side and found myself within the same space as my friend. He – rather astonishingly, given my restless state – was fast asleep, his breathing deep and calm. One bare shoulder and the top half of his chest above the sheet, for of course, it being summer – and being us – there was no need for the full regalia of nightshirt or all the rest of it. The air was thick despite our window being open a part way.

I shuffled closer and touched his shoulder with my fingertips. I curled my arm beneath the sheet and placed a hand upon his hip. The jut of bone, the warm and soft, inviting skin. I left my hand to rest there while my lips sought out his mouth, to steal a brief and furtive kiss.

He stirred, a little.

My fingers strayed to run the mound and smooth along the gluteal fold. So much warmth, and ripe to take a bite – which I so often liked to do – but now... such a contortion was too cumbrous. And, why even, when my fingers could enjoy it just as well.

And then, to wind them in around the jet-black wilds at front; to tease and tame, to run so lightly down the thick and docile shaft.

(Rare enough that any part of Holmes might be considered docile.)

An eyelid twitch; a mumble.

And I nestle in, the closest I might dare, and I resume my gentle pet. 

And I wonder, if I wake him would he allow me a full roust? For I am hard and I am aching and I have bad dreams to dispel.

I have stroked him half erect by now. His own dreams must be pleasant, for he is keening (very quietly), straining his beak against my palm.

And I absolutely need to thrust my nose into his armpit, or his groin, to breathe the scent of him. And yes, I am aware that this is feral and slightly odd, perhaps, and yet I do not care.

His armpit is the nearer. Musk and damp and sweet and sour. I consider it ambrosial!

And still he sleeps (it is a miracle), and I cannot find the heart that would disturb him, for the day that is to come may be a long one. So I settle for a spot that is as close as I might dare, and then I listen to the clock-tick and I watch the second hand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Daylight at last.

I had fallen asleep once again, after all. When I opened my eyes, it was past eight o'clock and I was alone in our bed. I washed and dressed quickly, and descended to the sitting-room. Holmes was cross-legged on the rug and in the process of restringing his violin.

“Good morning, John,” said he. “I broke my A.”

“You broke your what?”

“My _A_.” He waved a thin coil of gut. “On my _violin_. I have no idea what I did to it.”

“How very dreadful.”

He smiled at me.

“I had a wonderful dream last night. Oh! And a telegram arrived from Victor. You will never guess. It is over there, I put it on the breakfast table.”

I listened to his happy gabble, so much changed from yesterday. Holmes's relief at at his elder brother's intervention was quite obvious, and now as fresh distraction there was a telegram and a mystery to solve. 

The former had been placed beside a heaping dish of bacon. For one moment I was undecided which I should reach for. 

I picked up the telegram, and read:

NEW LETTER RECEIVED ADDRESSED TO MY AUNT STOP I BEG YOU TO COME HERE TODAY STOP TOBIAS WILL BE CATCHING THE TWELVE THIRTY TRAIN STOP VB

“What on earth is going on?” I said, frowning at the lines of type.

“Whatever it is, it is gorgeous,” said Holmes, amidst much plucking and scraping. “I cannot wait to learn more. Gregson is tiresome, catching such a late train. I would far rather take the ten o'clock.”

“I want my breakfast,” I said firmly. “Will we need to pack our bags again? The twelve-thirty will be perfect.”

“It would be as well to. I must send another telegram in any case. The pieces of the puzzle are quite opaque, still, John. But at least we have a name to play with now.” 

I looked up from my meal, my fork in stasis.

“A name? Who? How? And when?”

My friend chuckled. “My telegram from Cuba. A reply from the Hernández tobacco company, who very willingly provided me with certain mail order details of that particular brand of cigarette to this country this past year. I told you, John, that those cigarettes were rare. Two deliveries only, these twelve months, and both to personal addresses. The first was to an old fellow up in the far reaches of Scotland, so never mind about him. The second was to an 'E. Bruce', at a post office box in Surrey three months ago.”

The food upon my fork was growing cold.

“Holmes, but this surely means you have him now? Oh, but wait. It was a 'C', not an 'E', on those other notes. Could you have misread it?”

“No, John, I could not have,” my friend replied in indignation. He set down his Stradivarius rather more roughly than it deserved. “I do not misread things. I need to find out how many 'E. Bruces' are living in Surrey at the present time. Hence the telegram I have to send, _etcetera._ ”

The last said with a great dramatic eye-roll and a hand-flap.

“Sometimes I prefer you when you are asleep,” I said, without caring to elaborate. My forkful of bacon and egg made its landing at last. I buttered a thick slice of toast and watched Holmes as he scribbled a telegraph form. I wondered who in all the world 'E. Bruce' could be, if they were male or female, and what involvement they could have in this affair.

A further telegram arrived while Holmes was out. I set it by his chair. When he bounded into the room ten minutes later, I made a point to it.

“It is like Piccadilly Circus,” I observed.

“You really do exaggerate,” said he. He tore it open and scanned the contents. “It is from Mycroft,” he informed me. “It has been attended to.”

“It?” I said. “What is 'it'? Spencer, do you mean? What has Mycroft done?”

“ _Mycroft_ never does anything,” said Holmes. “Not personally. And I rather doubt that he would tell you, even if you asked him nicely.”

I shook my head slowly. “I am a little concerned.”

“You are a little everything.” Holmes kissed the top of my head. “Except in one critical area.” 

He chuckled quietly.

“And you'll be getting that tonight,” I told him. “I am going to pack our bags now.”

The reply to Holmes's telegram was a little slow in coming. My friend was looking at his watch and then out to the street below in quick succession a scant half-hour before our train was due to leave. And then, at last, a knock upon the door. Holmes swept out and down the stairs to take it up. His step then slower back to me, as he perused the rough font strip.

“There are _twelve_ people by that name who live in Surrey,” he said, his mouth downturned. “How very inconvenient. We may narrow down the radius. And now we have to hurry else we shall surely miss our train.”

We made it only just in time. Gregson's flaxen head was stuck out from a carriage window. He was looking left to right and seemed about to give up in disgust when we cantered up and climbed inside, pulling shut the narrow door.

“And not a dratted minute too soon,” said our friend the Inspector. “There's the whistle now. Whatever kept you?”

We settled ourselves as the train pulled out slowly. We were just three inside our carriage, and just as well, for so many bags and jackets, hats and sticks. Gregson lolled back in his seat and fixed us with a lazy smile.

“What a to-do, then, eh? But my Victor's a brave lad, he's doing well. And he tells me that you think it a great mystery, Mr. Holmes! Well, the best of luck with that. I don't see anything so odd.”

“I don't suppose you would,” replied Holmes. “And yet Victor is so kind as to indulge me.”

“The countryside is full of crackpots,” said Gregson, in a confidential tone. “But they are harmless for the most part. That old woman in black I have been told of, ha ha! Those nosey old country biddies, they'd stop and gawp at a pig dancing in swill. Nothing better to do with their time, see.”

“Thank you so much for clearing that up,” said my friend, with a smile.

We spoke of other things: the poor condition of the gables and the splendour of its garden. When Gregson mentioned Victor, it was with pride and love, and it filled my soft romantic heart with pleasure to hear him talk so.

“I want the lad to move in with me, in the city, but I'm cautious, because you know how tongues can wag,” said the Inspector. He lit a cigarette and drew the window a few inches further down. “He is still living in that squalid place, and I know mine is scarcely better, but some nights when he's away from me I miss him something terrible.”

I nodded in great empathy.

“Then you must tell him,” I said. “Do not hide how you feel. And it is absolutely possible to be discreet, as Holmes and myself are.”

Gregson looked at me. He looked at Holmes. He burst then into laughter.

“Ah, Doctor,” said he, “well, you shouldn't have said that. Victor heard the pair of you in the Blue Room, going at it like the clappers, or so he told me confidentially, bless his heart. Keep the noise down, can you, eh, tonight, so that folks can get some sleep? Ha ha!”

“Oh, for goodness sake,” said Holmes. “Those bloody paper-thin walls. Shut up, Gregson, you imbecile.”

But the Inspector's rib was tickled – and by the colour of my cheeks and my mortified expression, all the more so. 

“And that's what I'm _saying_ ,” Gregson continued, with a broad shrug of his shoulders. “it's the same in our cheap digs. It's a bit much to keep asking my Victor to squeal like a strumpet so that no-one suspects.” A pause. “He's very good at it, mind you.”

“I would far rather we talk of the theatre now, or Goethe, or Poe,” said Holmes. “If only to save poor John here from internal combustion.”

“And he the doctor,” Gregson chuckled. “A doctor and a _gentleman_ ,” he amended, with a nod in my direction. “So what's this Goethe been up to then, eh? Tell me all about him, Mr. Holmes.”

So we spoke of Goethe and Dickens, and then of the new restaurant – the 'Steamboat William' – in the Strand, that Gregson found much to his liking, not least the excellence of its wine list. We made promises to all meet there one evening, their best table set for four.

We were quite the jolly band, then, when the hansom dropped us duly at the gate of the old gables some time later. Victor was standing in the doorway, and his face lit up so brightly at the sight of our companion. Gregson, for his part, dropped all his luggage on the gravel and fairly charged towards his boy, who staggered backwards from the onslaught. They disappeared inside the house. Holmes and I stood where we were, looked at each other, broke into laughter.

“It is not _our_ noise that I think we need to worry about tonight,” said he. 

“My goodness, yes, Holmes, about that...”

“At least Baker Street has thicker walls. John, do you remember the Lake District?”

I remembered, then. “Oh dear. I do. Poor Simmons. I wonder how he is these days? I should write the dear fellow a letter.”

Collecting the bags around our feet, I followed Holmes up to the door and, tentative, we peeped inside. There was no-one in the hall. Off to one side, the sitting-room, we heard much laughter and animated conversation. My friend tapped sharply, twice, and in we went.

And there were Victor and Gregson, loosely entwined upon the sofa. They looked up upon our entrance.

“Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson!” said Victor, extricating himself with some effort. “I am so glad you are here once again. I can only apologise for your having to travel with this terrible oaf. He is quite out of control, as you see.”

The young man became serious then for a moment. He reached over, picked up a letter and held it out towards my friend.

“Please, Mr. Holmes, do read this letter. It is of the same handwriting as the others, but I do not understand what it can be about. It was pushed through the letterbox last evening.”

Holmes took it, read it over. His expression changed but slightly. He looked up to me, to Victor, then to the ceiling.

“I wonder,” said he. “I wonder.” Then, with a sudden seeming realisation: “The one place that I did not think to look! John! I am a fool.”

And away he darted towards the stairs, leaving the three of us bewildered.


	9. The Safe Box

After the initial daze, I was not far behind my friend. I pursued him close along the landing until we reached the master bedroom.

“This is the place?” I looked about me. “But the room is almost empty, Holmes. A bed, a chair, a wardrobe, a dressing table...”

There were very few items scattered: some powder compacts on the table, a few dusty perfume bottles with applicators, a long bristled hairbrush, an oval mirror upon its stand. The wardrobe doors were open, and I discreetly peeped inside. There were long dark gowns and sequinned jackets, dowdy dresses and buckled boots, a small number of hat boxes.

“Cast your mind back to the first time that we were here, John,” said my friend.

“Ah!” I remembered then. “The cubbyhole.”

“Yes.” 

Holmes handed me the letter that he had brought with him from the sitting-room.

I held it up and read:

_'Mi querida madre, I am very sorry for springing this great surprise. I think, perhaps you did not wish to know my secret. Are you angry? Who are those people in your house? Who have you told? Please write. C.'_

“Holmes, what does it mean? What are those three words at the beginning?”

“They are in Spanish.”

“Thank you, yes, but...?”

Holmes was running his fingers across the wooden panels below the dado rail. The exact spot proved to be elusive until at last, the touch of a spring and a panel drew down to reveal a large safe box.

“We do not know the combination,” I observed.

“Pish,” said he, “it should not take me a minute.”

He set to tinkering with the dial, his ear pressed to it most intently. I sat down upon the bed and watched him work. Victor and Gregson were hovering awkwardly in the doorway. I motioned that they should be quiet, that they might not upset my friend's concentration.

I mused upon the splayed wardrobe doors. What if someone had borrowed the contents for indefinable purpose? And what of the dressing table: was that fresh powder spilled upon it, or merely dust? My brain whirled with strange scenarios, each more outrageous than the last.

Holmes, the meanwhile, was still pressed to the safe box. I hardly dared move lest the bed springs should squeak. At length he hissed in triumph, and with a brisk flick of his wrist the safe swung open. His back obscured our view. He released an exclamation.

“What _is_ it, Mr. Holmes?” 

Holmes turned his head.

“My dear Victor and Gregson, I must ask you to allow me a minute. How am I to carry on with my work if there is constant interruption? If you could return to the sitting-room, please, and John and I shall join you there when we are able. Thank you.”

I shut the door on the chuntering pair and moved across to my friend. It was only then that I set eyes on the safe and its contents.

“Holmes! Great heavens...!”

Holmes plunged in a hand to draw out a tight bundle of bank notes. And another, and yet more, and he placed them about on the bedspread.

“All of a high denomination,” said he. “Aunt Augusta clearly held little respect for the humble street bank. John, there are a great many thousands of pounds here.”

He pulled out a further bundle, this one consisting of letters and paperwork and a few old, betattered diaries. As I stared at the bounty now spread out around me, so neatly tied up with red ribbon, my friend set to reading the papers.

“Victor is now a rich man,” I said softly.

“No, John, wait,” said Holmes. He set down what he was reading. “If you knew anything of Spanish, then you would know that _'Mi querida madre'_ translates to _'My Dear Mother'_. And I am afraid that that is what these documents pertain to.”

“But Victor's aunt was childless,” I said, reluctant, uncomprehending.

“So we were all led to believe. Hush now, I am reading.”

And so I sat toying with the bundles, building little walls and bridges until my friend looked up at last. The documents were strewn in disarray.

“Augusta Burroughs had a child when she was nineteen, out of wedlock,” said my friend. “It was a son, and according to the correspondence the boy was given to adoption only a few weeks after birth. Neither son nor mother attempted contact for over forty years. The boy's new family moved to Cuba. Now he has returned to England, perhaps due in part to a latent wish to locate his true mother and to meet with her for the first time. Understandably, it took him a little time to track Lady Augusta down, and then – well, I think perhaps that story is better told from those who experienced it at first hand. One thing we may be sure of: the son is unaware of his mother's demise. I wonder if young Jane is here today? I have another telegram to send.”

“It is all starting to make sense,” I said. “But, my goodness, how will you break the news to Victor? For the son will surely have the greater claim upon this house and its effects? He is certain to contest the will, Holmes. Whatever can we do?” I thought for a moment. “If it _was_ the son who was the gardener, then who was that old woman who stood lurking by the gate? And why were all of the notes written in a woman's hand?”

Holmes rose from his crouch.

“I hope to confirm my theories very shortly,” he replied.

I helped to replace the bundles in the safe. 

“It is best that we say nothing of _this_ yet to Victor,” said Holmes, tapping two of the bundles together.

He pushed to the safe door and reset the lock. The panelling was moved into place. I watched him make note of the combination. After all of this had been done, we returned to the sitting-room where our two friends were waiting so patiently.

“Damn it all, Holmes,” Gregson exploded. “What the flaming merry hell is going on here?”

“Gregson,” said my friend, “do sit down and cool your ardour. I shall tell you both as much as I am able.”

And standing by the barren hearth, a cigarette in his left hand, Holmes proceeded to do just that. Victor started from his seat, pale-faced, at several revelations. Gregson placed an arm around him, whispered to him, held him tight. Of the money, Holmes as promised made no mention.

“I never imagined that my aunt should have kept such a secret,” said poor Victor at last. “Some years after that, of course, she met my uncle, and after their marriage they lived here at the gables until my uncle passed away ten years ago. I wonder if _he_ knew, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes gestured with his cigarette.

“It is possible, Victor, but who can tell? The motives of women are so inscrutable. How can you build on such a quicksand?” Upon noticing Victor's crestfallen expression, he quickly added: “I meant to say, that may apply to some women. Your aunt, on the other hand, my dear fellow, was an admirable lady. But at any rate, here is where we stand right now. According to my data, we have one 'E. Bruce' within a three mile radius. As this most recent letter was hand-delivered, I think it may be relatively safe to assume we have our man... or woman. A brief telegram as if written from your aunt can do no harm in bringing the elusive E. Bruce to us, unsuspecting. I have a description of the gentleman, and if by chance it is the lady, well then, Victor, you have seen her for yourself before.”

“Yes, from a distance,” said the lad. “If you must write your telegram, then I shall call for Jane so she can take it to the village.”

All we could do then was wait. It was unlikely we would hear anything before the evening or the next morning. A simple meal of cold meat, bread and pickles had been laid out upon the dining table. We sat and piled our plates and poured cold beer from a carafe. Our talk remained subdued, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I was barely listening when Gregson, tongue broadly loosened by the beer, commenced to spread gossip of the Yard. At the first mention of '... _Spencer_...', I shook myself upright.

“Gregson, what was that? You spoke of Spencer?”

Gregson snorted into his beer.

“Aye, that's right. The word came through late this morning, 'fore I left off. God knows who found it out. One of the constables on an early plod, no doubt.”

“What happened?” I insisted.

“Well, he packed up and left, didn't he. His place has been gutted empty, not a table nor a chair there now. Didn't leave a forwarding address either, no. Just scooted out of town, and no-one knows where. His mutt's with the next door neighbour now, I'm told. Silly fool got into a mess, that's all I can think. Owed someone too much money, aye. He always was a tad nutty in the putty.”

Gregson speared himself a pickle and crunched it down with satisfaction.

I frowned and looked across at Holmes, who was flipping through his notebook choosing to pay us little mind.

_...It has been attended to..._

Poor man. 

Our Blue Room was little changed from last we saw it. I heaved the beds together once again, and unpacked our bag. This could be our final night here, and after that no more. The thought displeased me, made me frown for Victor's sake. The lad deserved a better outcome; he deserved some happiness.

Holmes came to join me, and we laid back on the bed in just our shirt-sleeves, gazing up at the cracked plaster.

“Holmes--”

“I really don't know of the details, John.”

“Very well. I won't raise the subject again.”

He reached across and squeezed my hand.

“This waiting makes me nervous,” I confided by change of topic.

“We can do little else at present,” he replied. “Better this than the four of us charging up on their doorstep, for that would only put them on the offensive.”

I rolled over and against him, threaded my fingers in his waistcoat. He smelled of pollen and of pickles, quite the heady combination. I brushed the yellow flecks away.

“Whatever did you brush against,” I murmured.

I felt his lips upon my forehead. The softest kiss, and the slightest touch upon my cheek.

I dozed, and dreamed of wardrobes: an entire room of chipped mahogany spilling great piles of fur and lace upon the floorboards, neverending. Of my trying to fill my arms with all of this and some of that, and to push it back inside each cabinet to no avail. The clothes kept falling, spreading out, an endless task.

I awoke to find Holmes gently prodding my stomach. The sun was still grazing the sky.

“John, you were snoring,” said he. “It is tedious attempting to read when someone is snoring.”

I peeped at the book's cover. George Meredith's _A Reading of Earth_. A Christmas gift.

“You ought to have read that by now,” I teased. I tickled at his midriff. We roughhoused for a minute, during which time George Meredith flew in one direction while my decorum went the other. His breath was at my neck, meantime my hands were tugging at his shirt. He was fumbling with my trouser buttons when the downstairs bell rang out.

We both of us sprang from our rut to our feet. Rearranging our clothes and composure, we hurried out to the main landing. By now it was past five o'clock, but Jane the maid was with us still, for there were her footsteps in the hall and then the front door squeaking open. We heard soft voices – male and female – and then a shuffling as our visitors were shown into the drawing room.

Victor joined us where we stood.

“It is she!” he exclaimed, quivering visibly with indefinable emotion. “It is that woman, Mr. Holmes! I would put my life to it. And a middle-aged gentleman, too, whom Jane recognises.” Here our friend's eyes were downcast. “They believe I am fetching my aunt. I suppose you should go down and see to them instead. I shall follow you in.”

The anticipation was acute as we made our way downstairs. All was quiet in the drawing room. Holmes glanced back to us and nodded, and then led the way inside.

There was the old woman, suspicious and scowling and clad head to toe in jet black. She was carrying an old leather bag, which at first sight of us she clutched tight to her chest.

The younger man, tall, strong and brown from the sun, stepped forward in query. His brooding, dark eyes flashed from one to the other of us. 

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Where is the lady of the house?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” my friend replied. “You may wish to sit down, sir, and you too, Mrs. Bruce. I have some unfortunate news.”


	10. The Truth and All Who Sail in Her

The old woman stepped forward. She gripped onto her bag as a means of defence; a kid-leather shield to deflect all of our scrutiny.

“What do you mean by 'unfortunate'?” she wheezed out at last. “How did you come by my name?”

Her teeth were distracting, haphazard and grey, and affected her speech in a curious manner. For having spent so many years abroad in Cuba, Mrs. Bruce's wider accent remained steadfast yet within our country.

Holmes bowed but very slightly; he gestured to a padded armchair. The woman sat, all of a fidget, shooting anxious looks to her companion who remained standing.

“Your initials are embossed upon your bag,” my friend replied. “Your surname, I confess, was uncovered merely by research. You are this gentleman's adoptive mother.”

Mrs. Bruce allowed her jaw to drop and waver there.

“Yes, Mr.... Holmes. But however did you know that? Research? What for, when it is not any of your business? Where is Mrs. Burroughs, now?”

“I regret to inform you that Mrs. Augusta Burroughs is dead,” Sherlock Holmes replied. “And it is, in fact, my business, as I was instructed by the family to make enquiries. It was I who sent the telegram.”

The younger fellow released a sharp howl of despair. He leaped forward as if to launch an unarmed attack – and I steeled myself to defend my friend if it were so – but at the last, the brute fell back and sank down by the lady's side.

“No.” He sounded utterly distraught. “Oh, no, no, no.”

The old woman stroked his hair and leaned against him and was whispering: “Chico, my lad, my cheery boy, oh Chico, don't take on so...”

“Chico,” Holmes exclaimed. “So _that_ was the name. Well, sir, you mustn't crouch down like a beetle. Sit up on this chair I have set for you. That's better. John, if you might fetch the brandy, please. Thank you.”

I hurried out to fetch the decanter and a glass. By the time I had returned it appeared my friend had briefly outlined certain details to our guests, for both were listening intently to the monologue.

“I should much like to hear your own side of the matter,” said Holmes in conclusion. He looked to the man with the curious name. “If you are quite recovered.”

Chico Bruce downed his double brandy and wiped his mouth across his sleeve.

“I am recovered, yes,” said he, in a soft Spanish lilt. “But as I am sure you must appreciate, your news came as a terrible shock. Mr. Holmes, I swear to you now that I did not harm my mot--” (and here he stopped himself and winced and then continued) “-- my mother,” he determined, a little proudly but with a little guilt between. “My _other_ mother,” he amended. “I never harmed her, Mr. Holmes!”

He swung his head to the other faces in the room: the elder lady and myself, Victor and Gregson, all of whom were gazing at him most expectantly.

“So many people,” he muttered darkly, tugging his cravat in agitation.

I poured a second brandy, patted his shoulder that he should not be afraid.

“Well, so how much do you know?” said Chico Bruce. “If you found out both our name and our address, then it must be almost everything. My real mother – Augusta – was unmarried when she had me. I was adopted straightaway, I'm told, to a loving ma and pa who were unable to have any children of their own, and who already knew Augusta very slightly. I grew up in Cuba, which is far away from here. Our family knew precious little Spanish, as strange as that might seem. My old pa knew enough to manage. He died when I was seven. I had to try my best to earn my keep. I took a job, yes, even then, it was tough labour for a boy. And I never learned to read nor write. My ma took care of that for me. She'd read me fairytales and all the like, and write my letters too. She tried to teach me, but I never got the hang of how she told me. I never went to school, you see. But that doesn't mean I'm ignorant.”

Holmes nodded. He seemed impatient for the data to be relevant.

“The notes were in a woman's hand. You dictated them, your mother wrote them down.”

“Yes,” said Bruce, “that is correct. So that's how we lived for all those years. Me and my ma, in our cosy house. And then she told me when I was older just how she wasn't my real ma. That my real ma lived in England. And I got to wondering, you know. Just how my real ma might be. I kept those thoughts inside my head until a year ago. And then I couldn't stand it any more.”

Eleanor Bruce lurched forward in her chair. She clapped her hands upon her knees.

“I encouraged him!” said she, her dark eyes shining. “I said, _'Chico, my lovey, if you want to, go there and find her. You will regret it if you don't.'”_

“That's right,” said the fellow. “That's just what you said. We had saved up some money, so we sailed here on luck and on hope, Mr. Holmes. Ma was able to remember some small details of Augusta, and it took a little time but in the end I tracked her down. Then, of course, I was too skeered and awkward to say anything about it.”

The fellow laughed – it sounded bitter – and he shook his head.

“So I introduced myself instead as a keen gardener, who would be willing to work her land at little cost. It was just to get to know her in the slightest bit, you see. And she, bless her kind heart, she said yes. And aw, our conversations were so grand. She would stand there at her open window and we would talk, or she would follow me round the garden and I'd point out new flowers and the plants. That garden looked so fine when I was through. Then I was fearful that our time was up, that if I didn't say it now I never would. So I arranged for us to meet again. I handed her a pretty rose, and then I summoned all my courage and I told her, Mr. Holmes. I told her. I have this birthmark on my shoulder, see, so I showed her that to prove I wasn't lying, that she'd remember it and know that it was me.”

Bruce raised his hands up to his face.

“And how did she react?” my friend asked very gently.

“She went as white as a cotton sheet. She stepped back from the open window. She let out a tiny scream. And oh, I couldn't bear it. I couldn't stand that I had made her so distressed, that she should feel so very badly by my confession. So I turned upon my heel and ran away. I admit that I am a coward. I put as much distance as I could between the two of us. Well, my ma knew that something awful had happened by the look on my face. She promised me that she would make a visit to the gables, to wait for Augusta to make an appearance at the window or in the garden. Just to see how she was faring. Ma was too terrified to ring upon the bell, or to announce just who she was.”

“Ashamed,” countered Eleanor Bruce. “ _Ashamed_. For she was a proper _lady_ , and then there's me with these crooked teeth and these old clothes, and ah, I felt embarrassed after so many years. I drew up the courage today, though. But what for, eh, what for.”

She looked sadly down into her lap.

“I brought photographs to show her,” she added softly, and she stroked her leather bag.

“You share the same brand of cigarette,” said Sherlock Holmes, looking from the lady to Chico Bruce. The change of subject struck me as jarring; I felt very sorry for this old woman and her memories and photographs, and for how she must be feeling and her bravery despite it.

They nodded, mystified.

“When ma hadn't seen Augusta, only this other gentleman here,” – and he pointed to young Victor, who seemed much affected by the story – “well, I was worried and I felt even more upset. So ma wrote another note for me, and late at night she came and popped it through the letterbox. And now we're here, and I don't know what else there's left to say. My mother's dead, and I feel as if it is my fault.”

“Please, Mr. Bruce, you must not blame yourself,” said Victor Burroughs. He rose from his chair and walked across to his wretched cousin. “My aunt was not in the best of health. It could have happened at any time.”

“That is small comfort,” said the fellow, “but still, I thank you for your kindness.” He looked across to Sherlock Holmes. “What now, then? Am I in trouble with the police, or what's the score of it?”

“You are not in any trouble,” my friend replied. “We only wished to learn the cause, and now we know, and that's the end of it.” He paused and looked to Victor in silent question.

Victor placed a hand upon the shoulder of his cousin.

“Chico,” said he, “it is only right I tell you this. I am Augusta's nephew. When your mother died, she left the entirety of her estate to me.”

“Well, yes, that's as it should be,” replied the older man. “She loved you, yes, she did, and I see your gentle spirit for myself, with you having only spoken a few words.”

“But you are her _son_ ,” Victor persisted.

 _What are you doing, Victor?_ I wondered, panicked, but in awe of his noble heart.

Chico squinted, and he took the bait at last.

“I am her son, that's true,” said he. “I knew her for a month and then I lost her. I don't lay any claim to anything, because, you see, that's not the way I was brought up. I don't take things that I can't rightly call my own. Whatever would Augusta think, god rest her soul, if I did something that she never would have wished? I have already ruined one life: hers. I have no desire to ruin yours as well.”

The two men stood regarding one another for a moment. Then our friend held out his hand and shook the other's as in wonderment.

“Gallantry runs in the family, I see,” said Holmes with a smile. “May I ask what your plans for the future will be?”

“There is nothing to keep us in Surrey,” replied Chico. “I have some gardening work in the village next but yonder, but it won't last for very long. We could move around a bit or we might go back to Cuba, mightn't we, ma?”

His old ma nodded at him wistfully.

“Then we shall not place a foot in your way,” said my friend. “Our best wishes for your future, Mr. Bruce.”

(That Gregson had sat by to allow my friend to conduct his interview with no bumptious intervention was, to my mind, all but a miracle. For he had listened as intently as the rest of us, held rapt within the story and content to know no crime had taken place.) 

(Or merely perhaps because it was the weekend and he declared himself off-duty.)

Victor insisted that the Bruces stay for dinner. We sat six around the table and we jostled for potatoes and we argued over vegetables. The roast goose was very fine indeed. If our guests found it unusual that the house was plagued by bachelors, then they were polite enough to make no mention of it. We spoke of England: of her traditions and her weather, our fond nostalgia and our hope. We talked and we made merry, and all spent a most delightful summer evening.

“I believe that I shall miss them,” remarked Victor, as the front door closed much later, shutting out the dark blue night. “I think that I shall write, or send a card to obtain their forwarding address, if they are really so intent in moving on.”

“Victor, come with me, please,” said my friend.

And so it was that Victor learned of the contents of the safe box. His large blue eyes could scarce believe it as he picked up first one bundle and the next. Securing his own future, and the future of the gables should he wish to set some permanence within it. Never had he imagined that his dear eccentric aunt should have so carefully squirrelled away a trove while living in such modesty. We listened to him babble as he expounded on all the things that he might do: Repair the structure! Refresh the décor! Give up his humdrum job, follow his dream, commence to writing his first novel! 

He held aloft a few bundles of the money, set them aside.

“I know just who might benefit from these,” said he, wide-smiling. “Do you still hold their address in your book, Mr. Holmes?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The food, the wine and the excitement all culminated in my sleeping very little in our Blue Room that night. I rose and smoked a cigarette in a chair set by the window, and watched the winking quarter-moon out through the curtain crack. At some mid point before the dawn my friend rose up to sit with me.

“It had a happy ending after all, I think,” I said, half to myself and half to Holmes.

“As we should hope,” said he. “Upon my word, I pray the boy has a modicum of writing talent, otherwise we should have kept the money for ourselves.”

And our snorts no doubt disturbed the sleep of Victor and of Gregson, and the thought of that amused us even more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After an early morning breakfast and with our bags packed up and ready, Gregson caught us by the door. He shook our hands and shuffled circles on the spot.

“Thank you, thank you both,” said he. “For all that you have done. I can hardly tell you just how relieved my Victor is. He won't admit it but he was fair worried out of his mind as to what might happen with the house. He will likely keep it, Mr. Holmes. My word – imagine if he had sold it as it was with that hidden cache behind the wall! It hardly bears any thinking, eh?”

“We shall see you back in town,” my friend replied. “ _The Steamboat William_ , don't forget.”

Victor was waiting by the gate. We made him promise that he should meet with us in London very soon to update us on his progress with the gables. Sally and Jane would retain their posts; Victor was about to go to inform them of the news.

“Victor,” my friend said slowly, “my dear fellow, when you decorate...”

Victor laughed. He knew exactly what my friend was thinking of.

“Don't worry, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “Your room will still be blue.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We arrived back in the sweltering furnace – that is, to say, London – shortly after midday. Having tolerated precious little sleep the night before, I was yawning loudly by the time we turned the key at Baker Street. Holmes flung himself immediately upon the sofa. He stretched out prone and lolled his head against the cushions.

“This is mine now, John,” he said, smiling. “I need to rest my eyelids.”

“I don't see how that can be,” I said. “You managed far more sleep than I, last night.” 

I dropped our bags into a corner and briefly contemplated calling down to Mrs. Hudson for some tea. But far too drowsy for even that, I headed into Holmes's unused bedroom for a horizontal space. The bed was neatly made, the sheets still fresh. I pulled the curtains to, removed my jacket and my waistcoat, and curled upon the covers where I quickly fell to slumber.

A rattle at the doorknob woke me fifteen minutes later.

“John,” came the voice, “are you awake?”

I groaned and rolled over to squint at the light pouring in from the sitting-room.

“Yes,” I said. “Come in.”

Holmes slipped into the room, shutting the door quietly and padding across to the bed, where he perched upon the edge, cast in dark shadows and streaks of pale light from the chinks of the curtain.

“How are you feeling?” he enquired.

A sudden flash of memory, unbidden, pale and fractured. I blinked.

“Tired,” I complained. I peered down at my watch. “Ugh.” Then: “This reminds me of Franton, for some reason.”

Holmes froze. His hand, which was reaching out across the sheets, retracted sharply.

“Franton,” he said slowly, as if the word were shards upon his tongue.

“You must remember,” I said, yawning. “When we stayed at your brother Ulysses's house. You came into my room, and--”

Holmes jerked away from the bed. He stood up.

“ _No_ ,” he said. “John, I don't want to hear it. I don't--.”

“Holmes,” I said – alarmed now. “What? You don't want to hear _what?_ ”

Very obviously conflicted, he turned and left the room. If my reaction had been slower then I believe he might have headed for the stairs and the front door. As it was, I caught his wrist and pulled him back. He resisted with some force.

“What the hell is going on?” I hissed. “I don't understand it.”

I all but dragged him to the sofa and set him beside me.

“Talk,” I commanded.

His face creased up in agony. “No.”

“I love you,” I told him. “Whatever it is, you surely can tell me. We have no secrets from one another, after all.”

Holmes propped his elbows on his knees and thrust his face into his hands.

My palms were clammy; my head was hot.

“You hold... a secret?” The question felt as lead in my throat.

“Only to protect you.”

“Protect me? Protect me from what?”

“From the truth.”

Words, spinning in circles, incomprehensible.

“Your brother,” I said. “Ulysses. This has something to do with him?”

Holmes raised his face at last. He looked at me. His eyes were sad and pale.

“Yes.” He sounded defeated. “But, John--”

I knew, then. Somehow, I just knew.

I put my arms around my love; I pulled him close to me. And then, of course, he realised I knew. I felt him shudder.

“I remember only a few words,” I whispered, “and nothing of what happened. All of us were very drunk.”

Did I feel anger? Yes, and towards Holmes, to my surprise.

Shame? No, not shame as I might label it. Disgust neither, no, nor any of those things. I believe I am pragmatic. I am thankful for the veil that disallows a trace of memory.

I do feel betrayed.

“You are angry with me,” said Holmes. A muffled observation.

“Only because you suffered it alone for all this time. Holmes... oh my love, how did you manage?”

“I barely did,” said he, his head burrowed in my shoulder. “John, this conversation is all which-way-about. It is I who should be comforting _you_. I am so incredibly, terribly sorry. We should never have gone to Franton. I should never have allowed curiosity to get the better of me.”

“He was your brother.”

“He is better off dead.”

I had no answer.

That was how I came to learn, then, of the treachery of family and the process of elimination. For secrets fester when they have no right nor privilege. I asked only a few questions, and Holmes answered them as best he could. At length we had no words to speak. I found myself curled up upon his lap as he sat upright on our sofa. I fell asleep, and many hours in that position, and he did not move an inch that he disturb me.

I woke at nine o'clock, the evening shadows in the room. Holmes's hands were in my hair and gently soothing. I raised my head to look at him.

“It is late, Holmes. You must be cramped. You should have woken me before.”

“No. It is all right.” He leaned forward and kissed my temple tenderly. “John--”

I squeezed his hand. “You don't need to say anything else.”

“But I feel that I should. I love you more than I could possibly admit. I--”

I drew up into his lap then, and I held his face and kissed him 'til he had to beg for air.

“I am more resilient than perhaps you give me credit for,” I told him. “Tomorrow I may wish to break a vase or smash a teacup, but right now I would like to take a bath and then, perhaps, some supper.”

Impossible memories. Put them to rest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One week later, there were two letters in the mail.

Holmes opened up the first of them, and read it aloud to me. It was from Victor Burroughs, and it carried news from Surrey: of his plans and their progression, of realised happiness and security. Gregson would be with him every weekend, and the times that Victor was in town, well, he had already moved some possessions into Gregson's little warren so that they should not be apart.

“That is wonderful news,” I said, smiling.

The second letter drew a frown to Holmes's face. I looked at him, anxious.

“Damn it,” he said.

My thoughts flew to Spencer, or Pike, or some other low creature. “Whatever is it?”

“A _very_ final reminder from Newton's. He threatens to break both of my kneecaps if I do not settle that dratted invoice for that wretched, dratted cabinet.” He paused. “I suppose that I should pay it.”

Holmes passed a thoughtful moment casting complaint in sotto voce. His face took on an impish look; he seemed intent on making mischief.

_“But I do not think I shall.”_

Then he crumpled up the sheet into a ball, and overarmed it far away.

 

\- END -


End file.
